(LIBRARY    § 
UNIVEF         f  OF 
CAU  .* 

SAN  wttQQ     1 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIFGO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 

_   Ward  L.  Thornton 

donor 


WINTERGREEN 


PZ 

3 

•  i- 

V/i 


'Where  is  she?"  he  demanded 


- 

-"- 


WINTERGREEN 


A  TALE  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION 


BY 


JANET     LAING 

AUTHOR  OF 
"BEFORE  THE  WIND,"  "THE  MAN  WITH  THE  LAMP" 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  CENTURY  CO. 
NEW  YORK  MCMXXII 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

ALL  THOSE  WHOM   IT  MAY 
CONCERN 

THIS 
SCRAP  OF   SECRET   HISTORY 

IS 
DEDICATED 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  IN  WHICH  AMONG  OTHER  THINGS  SOME 
ACCOUNT  is  GIVEN  OF  A  FEW  OF  THE 
PREHISTORIC  ACTS  OF  THE  PRINCIPAL 
HEROINE 3 

II    IN  WHICH  THE  HISTORIC  ADVENTURES  OF 

THE  PRINCIPAL  HEROINE  BEGIN   .     .       15 

III  WHICH  BEGINS  WITH  A  MYSTERY  AND  ENDS 

WITH  A  REVELATION 27 

IV  IN    WHICH    ALL    THE    MEMBERS    OF    A 

HOUSEHOLD  GET  UPON  EACH  OTHER'S 
NERVES 48 

V    IN  WHICH  AN  ACCOUNT  is  GIVEN  OF  SOME 

RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS 74 

VI    IN    WHICH    WINTERGREEN    ENTERS    THE 

LAND  OF  PROMISE 96 

VII    IN   WHICH   THE   LAND  OF   PROMISE   BE- 
COMES AWARE  OF  ITS  NEW  INMATE  .     118 

VIII    WHICH  BEGINS  WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  AND 

ENDS  AMONG  SEA- PINKS     .     .     .     .     137 


8  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

IX  IN  WHICH  WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA- 
PARTY  AND  ALICE  INSTITUTES  AN  AN- 
NIVERSARY   156 

X    IN  WHICH  THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER 

INADVERTENTLY  THICKENS  THE  PLOT     173 

XI  IN  WHICH  PUBLIC  BUSINESS  is  TRANS- 
ACTED   195 

XII    IN     WHICH     THOMASINA     DOES     SOME 

THICKENING 221 

XIII  IN  WHICH  WINTERGREEN  PERCEIVES  THE 

IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION     .     241 

XIV  IN    WHICH    PRIVATE    AFFAIRS    BECOME 

PUBLIC  AND  VICE  VERSA     ....     260 

XV    IN    WHICH    WINTERGREEN    ONCE    MORE 

MEETS  WITH  AN  OCCASION     .     .     .     274 

XVI    WHICH  BEGINS  WITH  ONE  DEPARTURE  AND 

CONCLUDES  WITH  ANOTHER     .     .     .     293 


WINTERGREEN 


"The  first  difficulties  to  be  surmounted  will  be  not 
economical  but  emotional." 

PROFESSOR  SHIELD  NICHOLSON, 
Inauguration  Lecture, 
University  of  Edinburgh, 
October,  1919. 


WINTERGREEN 


CHAPTER  I 

In  which  among  Other  Things  some  Account  is  given 
of  a  few  of  the  Prehistoric  Acts  of  the  Principal 
Heroine 

IT  was  in  the  town  church  of  Rathness  one  fine  Sunday 
morning  in  the  August  of  1919  that  in  the  fiftieth 
year  of  her  age,  and  in  direct  answer  to  prayer,  the  idea 
of  becoming  a  domestic  servant  occurred  to  Miss  Julia 
Glenferlie.  It  was  the  first  idea  she  had  ever  origi- 
nated, and  when  it  appeared  over  the  horizon  of  her 
mind  it  fairly  took  away  her  breath.  It  was  so  ordinary- 
looking,  like  a  teacupful  of  poison,  and  it  held  likewise 
such  possibilities.  Awe-stricken  she  considered  it  there- 
fore, while  apparently  absorbed  in  the  sermon,  with  her 
hat  tipped  over  her  small  keen  gray  eyes,  her  shortish 
nose,  and  her  long  upper  lip.  She  was  short  and  stout 
altogether,  giving  an  impression  of  strength  and  sturdi- 
ness  both  of  mind  and  of  body.  Her  own  teeth  and 
hair  were  still  sufficient,  and  she  had  the  complexion  of 
a  Ribston  pippin.  She  was  plainly  but  not  unfashionably 
dressed  in  gray,  with  touches  of  brilliant  green  about 
her.  Green  was  her  color.  Her  mother's  name  had  been 
Wintergreen,  and  it  pleased  her  to  wear  green  always 
in  memory  of  her. 

3 


4  WINTERGREEN 

As  she  sat  there  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  minister, 
she  was  realizing  that  Providence  in  vouchsafing  this 
idea  had  once  more  sprung  a  surprise  upon  her.  She 
recognized  it  also  as  the  same  kind  of  surprise — sudden 
and  sensational — which  she  had  had  several  times  before. 

Perhaps  never,  she  reflected,  had  there  been  a  woman 
so  peace-loving  by  nature  who  had  found  herself  so  fre- 
quently in  vicissitudes  of  the  first  magnitude.  She  re- 
membered specially  three  of  these  as  she  sat  there  with 
her  gaze  fixed. 

Her  first  crisis  had  overtaken  her  when  she  was  no 
more  than  seven  years  old.  Had  she  not  heard  her 
father  predict  it,  it  is  probable  that  she  would  not  have 
been  ready  for  it.  As  it  happened,  however,  she  had 
heard  him  predict  it  many  times  and  had  become,  un- 
known to  any  one  except  herself,  quite  used  to  the  ex- 
pectation of  it.  Therefore  when  she  had  come  upon  the 
laird  one  day  in  his  so-called  study  holding  a  revolver 
to  his  forehead,  she  had  immediately  grasped  the  situa- 
tion. Instinctively  also — heredity  may  account  for  this — 
she  had  realized  her  father's  state  of  mind  at  the  moment. 
She  had  not  rushed  forward  and  seized  his  arm  and 
screamed  at  him  as  her  mother  would  have  done.  She 
had  stood  quite  still  in  the  doorway  and  said — "Take 
care,  Daddy !  It  may  be  loaded !" 

Thus  she  had  saved  the  head  of  the  house  from  suicide, 
for  with  all  his  faults  and  defects  the  laird  had  a  strong 
sense  of  humor,  and  the  aspect  of  his  small  fat  daughter 
delivering  herself  of  this  speech  had  been  too  much  for 
his  determination  and  had  sent  him  into  fits  of  laughter. 

On  another  occasion,  when  she  had  been  in  her  teens, 
she  had  found  herself  in  a  railway  carriage — one  of  the 
old-fashioned  non-corridor  kind — alone  with  a  drunken 


A  FEW  PREHISTORIC  ACTS  5 

man,  who  said  he  would  make  her  rue  the  day  if  there 
and  then  she  would  not  kiss  him.  She  had  managed  to 
conceal  the  horror  and  consternation  she  had  felt  at  the 
alternative  offered  to  her,  and  had  merely  asked  if  he 
would  wait  till  they  came  out  of  the  tunnel  they  were 
then  entering  so  that  she  might  see  what  she  was  doing. 
With  shouts  of  mirth  the  man  had  consented  to  this  ar- 
rangement, but,  at  the  other  end  of  the  tunnel,  he  had 
found  to  his  indescribable  dismay  that  one  of  the  carriage 
doors  was  swinging  wide  open,  and  that  he  was  alone 
in  the  compartment.  Julia  meanwhile  had  made  her  way 
by  the  footboards  along  the  train  to  the  guard's  van, 
and  was  already  concealed  among  the  luggage  there  when 
the  danger-signal,  frantically  pulled,  brought  the  engine 
to  a  standstill.  As  no  one  ever  learned  the  real  facts 
of  the  case  except  the  guard  and  the  engine-driver,  no 
one  else  believed  that  she  had  been  in  the  carriage  at  all, 
and  when  her  tormentor  recovered  from  his  alcoholic 
state  even  he  did  not  believe  it. 

Other  events  had  followed  from  time  to  time,  made 
the  more  remarkable  by  the  long  dull  intervals  between 
them.  Had  a  contour  map  of  her  life's  course  been 
drawn  it  would  have  been  a  straight  line  broken,  when 
it  was  broken  at  all,  by  precipices.  The  last  of  these 
would  have  been  marked  on  such  a  map  not  long  before 
this  story  opens,  when,  after  an  eventless  visit  of  two 
years  spent  with  quiet  cousins  in  America,  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  come  home  in  the  May  of  1915  on  the  Lusi- 
tania. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  recall  here  what  happened.  All 
the  world  has  rung  with  the  echoes  of  it.  But  no  one 
probably  except  those  immediately  concerned  knows  how 
Miss  Glenferlie  saved  the  life  of  Mr.  James  Macfarlane. 


6  WINTERGREEN 

The  two  had  made  acquaintance  on  the  evening  of  the 
day  of  starting.  They  happened  to  be  placed  next  to 
each  other  at  dinner,  and  no  one  else — for  he  was  singu- 
larly unattractive — seemed  to  be  inclined  to  talk  to  Mr. 
Macfarlane.  Miss  Glenferlie  therefore,  to  whom  being 
unkind  was  being  uncomfortable,  allowed  him  to  talk 
to  her.  But  as  he  did  this,  not  only  during  that  dinner, 
but  ever  after — in  season  and  out  of  season — she  very 
soon  had  had  enough  of  him.  In  vain,  however,  did  she 
try  to  shake  him  off.  In  vain  did  she  lend  him  books 
to  distract  his  unwelcome  attention.  And  she  had  ac- 
tually reached  the  verge  of  cutting  him  absolutely  dead, 
when  the  German  torpedo  suddenly  and  inextricably 
intertwined  their  destinies. 

They  had  been  standing  side  by  side  on  deck  when  the 
water  rose  all  about  them,  and  Miss  Glenferlie,  with  that 
uncanny  self-possession  which  was  hers  at  such  times, 
had  noted  even  at  that  dreadful  moment  how  her  gar- 
rulous companion  had  been  struck  speechless.  There 
had  been  no  last  words.  He  had  forgotten  all  about  her. 
Had  she  not  thought  of  it  for  herself  she  would  not 
even  have  had  a  life-belt.  She  had  a  last  impression  of 
him  struggling  to  put  on  his  own,  as  she  slipped  off  her 
dripping  skirts  and  swam  for  dear  life.  When  the  great 
ship  sank  and  dragged  her  down  with  it  into  an  abyss 
of  icy  darkness,  the  memory  of  Macfarlane's  trembling 
hands  and  pallid  loose-lipped  countenance  accompanied 
her.  And  when  she  rose  to  the  surface  again  more  dead 
than  alive  she  thought  she  must  be  still  imagining  him, 
for,  clinging  to  the  plank  which  she  had  clutched,  there 
he  was,  pallid  cheeks,  staring  eyes,  and  everything.  He 
was  within  a  few  feet  of  her,  and  even  as  she  became 


A  FEW  PREHISTORIC  ACTS  7 

aware  of  this,  he  began  moving  hand  over  hand  towards 
her. 

"Save  me,"  he  gurgled.  "Save  me  for  the  love  of 
God." 

There  were  shrieks  all  round  them,  but  she  only  heard 
his  horrible  whisper.  Awful  sights  were  on  every  hand, 
but  she  only  saw  him  edging  nearer.  Next  moment  he 
might  have  over-balanced  the  plank  or  have  gripped  her 
in  his  insane  terror.  In  either  case  he  would  have  de- 
stroyed them  both.  But  as  usual  her  self-possession 
served  her. 

"Keep  where  you  are,"  she  managed  to  say.  "Hold  on 
to  the  middle  of  the  plank.  If  you  hang  on  to  me  I  can 
do  nothing  for  you.  But  if  you  keep  still  I  shall  try 
to  get  opposite  to  you." 

Mercifully  he  obeyed  her.  She  must  indeed  have 
looked  a  fearsome  sight  with  her  teeth  chattering  like 
castanets,  and  her  hair  afloat  like  seaweed.  She  moved 
along  till  she  was  facing  him. 

"Have  you  your  flask  ?"  she  said.  She  knew  he  always 
carried  one. 

He  opened  his  mouth  but  he  could  not  speak. 

"Keep  still  and  I  '11  get  it,"  she  said  peremptorily. 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word,  though  it  cost  her  a  su- 
preme effort. 

His  saturated  pocket  clung  to  the  flask  like  death 
itself. 

Nevertheless  a  few  moments  later  she  had  just  man- 
aged to  extract  it  when  to  her  horror  Macfarlane  seized 
it  and  began  draining  all  the  brandy  in  it. 

"You  wretch !"  she  exclaimed.  "You  selfish  wretch ! 
Are  you  going  to  leave  none  for  me?" 


8  WINTERGREEN 

But  it  seemed  he  had  again  forgotten  her. 

"You  brute!"  she  whispered,  and  then  she  fainted. 

From  that  moment  until  the  night  before  this  story 
opens,  except  that  she  had  found  his  name  in  the  list  of 
passengers  saved,  Miss  Glenferlie  had  seen  or  heard 
nothing  more  of  Mr.  Macfarlane. 

As  though  Providence  were  making  up  to  her  for  the 
last  great  adventure,  she  had  lived  for  four  years  in  peace 
and  quietness  at  the  Skellicks — her  solitary  old  house  set 
round  with  Scotch  firs — among  the  fields  two  miles  be- 
yond Rathness.  It  was  the  only  part  of  her  father's 
property  which  he  had  been  able  to  leave  her  at  his 
death.  The  road  to  it  was  not  much  better  than  a  cart- 
track.  The  old  house  itself  was  dark  and  gloomy.  Ex- 
cept for  her  adventure,  which  she  refused  to  mention, 
its  mistress  was  considered  uninteresting.  She  was  left 
for  the  most  part,  therefore,  to  the  companionship  of 
her  flowers  and  her  books,  and  this  pleased  her  very 
well.  Many  people,  indeed,  declared  that  they  did  not 
visit  her  because  they  knew  she  did  not  desire  to  be 
visited  by  them.  A  wit  in  Rathness  had  once  called  her 
the  Excluse,  because  those  to  whom  she  was  ever  "at 
home"  could  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  This 
name  for  her,  which  became  general,  was  supposed  to  be 
specially  amusing,  because,  though  her  father  had  been 
the  laird  of  Glenferlie,  her  mother  before  she  married 
him  had  been  his  housekeeper. 

During  the  war  Miss  Glenferlie  had  knitted  a  sock  a 
day  and  spent  her  money  on  war-works  as  lavishly  as 
her  father  might  have  done.  But  she  herself  had  re- 
mained withdrawn  from  it  all  in  her  own  cozy  little 
boudoir,  where,  for  hours  at  a  time,  no  sound  of  the 


A  FEW  PREHISTORIC  ACTS  9 

outer  world  was  heard  but  the  wind  in  the  fir-trees  and 
the  sea  sighing  in  the  distance. 

With  the  signing  of  the  peace  a  new  era  began.  There 
was  no  more  knitting  at  the  Skellicks.  But  otherwise 
there  was  little  difference.  The  money  still  poured  out 
into  the  maws  of  a  dozen  charities,  which  had  been 
starved  throughout  the  war  and  were  now  clamant  for 
increased  subscriptions.  Miss  Glenferlie,  however,  could 
now  read  without  interruption,  and  she  did  so  almost 
constantly.  There  was  so  much  still  to  be  read,  she  re- 
flected, and  so  little  time  to  do  it  in.  Her  mother  had 
died  at  sixty,  her  father  at  sixty-two.  She,  herself,  was 
now  fifty.  She  saw  herself  reading  on  happily  to  the  end 
of  her  life. 

Outside  problems  did  not  trouble  her.  She  avoided, 
indeed,  all  literature  that  was  concerned  with  the 
present  day.  She  had  heard  of  reconstruction,  of 
course,  and  was  vaguely  glad  that  it  was  going  on.  But 
it  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  personally  had  anything 
to  do  with  it.  Once  her  minister  had  made  her  uneasy 
by  saying  that  she  must  have  been  spared  from  the  Lusi' 
tania  for  some  special  purpose,  but  immediately  after- 
wards he  had  relieved  her  mind  by  saying  he  wanted 
money  for  something.  She  supposed,  therefore,  that  he 
only  meant  that  she  should  spend  more  freely  still,  and 
she  was  glad  that  spending  and  reading  could  go  on 
simultaneously. 

It  was  just  then,  however,  that,  though  she  did  not 
realize  it  at  the  time,  signs  of  another  precipice  began 
to  appear  aKead  of  her.  In  the  spring  of  the  year  1919 
Old  Roger  died.  Old  Roger  had  been  gardener,  coach- 
man, and  butler  at  the  Skellicks.  It  was,  as  Dalrymple 


io  WINTERGREEN 

the  cook  said,  as  though  there  had  been  three  deaths  at 
once.  It  would  have  taken  three  people  to  replace  him, 
and  not  one  was  to  be  found  at  anything  like  the  wage 
which  the  retainer  of  thirty  years'  standing  had  consid- 
ered ample  payment.  Worse  than  this,  Dalrymple,  whose 
temper  had  never  been  good,  suddenly  realized  one  day 
that  she  was  being  taken  advantage  of.  Others  who  were 
mere  infants  in  comparison  to  her  both  in  years  and 
capabilities  were  earning  as  much  as  she  was.  She  there- 
fore requested  her  mistress  to  pay  her  a  wage  more  suit- 
able to  her  qualifications  or  to  find  another  cook. 

Three  days  after  this,  Dawson,  the  house  lady's  maid, 
after  looking  pensive  for  twenty- four  hours,  began  to 
sigh  heavily  one  evening  as  she  was  brushing  her  mis- 
tress's hair.  On  being  asked  what  was  the  matter  she 
said  that  the  matter  was  her  wage.  If  Dalrymple  was 
to  get  a  rise,  surely  it  was  only  fair  that  she  should  get 
a  rise  too.  Otherwise  Dalrymple,  whom  she  cordially 
disliked,  would  have  the  right  to  lord  it  over  her. 

Miss  Glenferlie  agreed  that  this  must  be  avoided  at  all 
costs.  But  on  debating  with  herself  as  to  what  those 
costs  should  be,  it  seemed  to  her  that  further  advice  than 
that  of  Dawson  would  be  useful.  Mr.  Carrick  in  Rath- 
ness  was  the  family  lawyer  and  banker  and  an  old  friend 
as  well.  Miss  Glenferlie,  therefore,  wrote  to  him  stating 
her  own  case  and  the  case  of  her  domestics. 

Mr.  Carrick's  reply  was  the  third  and  most  ominous 
sign.  He  came  himself  in  person  to  deliver  it,  and  was 
most  kind  and  sympathetic. 

All  the  sympathy  in  the  world,  however,  could  not 
alter  the  fact  that  Miss  Glenferlie's  income  had  been 
considerably  exceeded  by  her  expenditure.  Indeed,  so 
much,  it  seemed,  was  her  account  at  the  bank  already 


A  FEW  PREHISTORIC  ACTS  11 

overdrawn  that  Mr.  Carrick  himself  was  financing  her 
until  the  next  substantial  dividends  should  come  in  to 
square  things  up  at  Christmas.  She  must  see,  he  ex- 
plained, how  if  your  resources  being  what  they  were, 
if  you  gave  five  pounds  to  this  and  five  pounds  to  that 
and  ten  pounds  to  the  other,  you  soon  came  to  the  end 
of  your  money.  Funds,  moreover,  were  lower  than  they 
had  ever  been.  Even  the  substantial  dividends  he  had 
spoken  of  might,  when  they  did  come  in,  be  mere  frac- 
tions of  what  they  had  been  aforetime.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances any  rise  of  wages  to  either  of  the  two  serv- 
ants would  be  unadvisable,  and,  as  he  had  been  making 
up  his  mind  for  some  time  to  tell  her,  all  her  charities 
must  be  stopped  forthwith. 

Mr.  Carrick  was  a  dapper  little  amiable  gentleman 
with  a  habit  of  tapping  himself  nervously  with  his  eye- 
glasses. He  tapped  himself  more  than  usual  during  this 
address,  for  something,  as  he  said  afterwards  to  his 
wife,  glimmered  in  the  eyes  of  his  client  which  he  had 
seen  before  in  the  laird's  eyes  when  he  was  about  to 
burst  into  one  of  his  torrential  rages.  Nothing  happened, 
however.  All  that  Miss  Glenferlie  said  was — 

"I  understand." 

Then  she  talked  of  other  matters.  Moreover,  she  gave 
him  an  excellent  tea  before  he  set  out  again  on  the  rough 
road  back  to  Rathness. 

But  no  sooner  had  Mr.  Carrick  taken  his  departure 
than  his  client  went  into  the  small  room  on  the  upper 
floor,  once  called  the  study  and  now  the  boudoir,  and  set 
herself  grimly  to  tackle  the  situation. 

As  she  did  so  she  looked  up  at  a  portrait  of  her  mother 
painted  by  a  friend  of  the  laird's  who  had  lived  for 
some  time  on  his  hospitality  and  had  been  mothered  by 


12  WINTERGREEN 

his  lady,  the  erstwhile  Jane  Wintergreen.  It  had  been  the 
artist's  fancy  to  paint  her  in  an  old  rose-colored  brocade 
belonging  to  some  former  lady  of  the  Skellicks  which  had 
been  found  in  a  forgotten  wardrobe,  and  the  plain  sen- 
sible face  of  the  ex-housekeeper  looked  out  from  under 
a  black  lace  head-dress  adorned  with  red  roses. 

The  daughter,  clothed  in  something  which  matched  the 
shadows  in  the  room,  seemed  herself  a  shadow  beside  the 
flamboyant  canvas.  Otherwise  she  might  have  been  look- 
ing at  her  own  face  in  a  mirror.  Her  own  image  looked 
back  at  her,  solemn  and  slightly  grim,  for  the  lady  of 
the  Skellicks  had  had  her  own  ado  with  her  laird.  She 
had  come  to  him  at  the  Skellicks  when  he  had  already 
sown  the  wind  and  was  in  process  of  reaping  the  whirl- 
wind. His  one  regret  was  that  she  had  not  come  sooner. 

"You  would  have  saved  the  estates,  Jane,"  he  had  al- 
ways said.  "You  would  have  kept  a  grip  on  'em,  old 
woman." 

Certain  it  was  that  she  had  kept  a  grip  on  what  was 
left.  The  Skellicks,  such  as  it  was,  with  all  its  house- 
hold gods,  many  of  them  heirlooms,  had  been  left  in 
good  order  to  her  daughter.  She  had  implanted  also  in 
the  last  descendant  of  the  Glenferlies  the  same  reverence 
and  regard  for  her  belongings  that  she  herself  had  always 
felt  for  them. 

"You  have  in  them  what  money  cannot  buy,"  she  had 
said.  "They  are  your  inheritance.  They  have  come 
down  to  you  from  an  honorable  past.  Men  and  women 
of  your  own  blood  have  used  and  seen  them  and  have 
been  proud  of  them.  It  is  now  your  duty  to  keep  them 
well  and  carefully  so  that  you  may  hand  them  on  as  you 
have  received  them." 

From  this  it  will  be  gathered  that  Jane  Wintergreen 


A  FEW  PREHISTORIC  ACTS  13 

had  been  no  ordinary  housekeeper.  She  had  been  no 
ordinary  mother  either. 

"I  '11  have  you  taught  nothing  but  what  you  are  likely 
to  need,"  she  had  said.  "You  can't  sing  a  note  in  tune, 
so  I  '11  not  have  you  taught  music.  I  never  see  you  want- 
ing to  draw,  so  I  '11  not  have  you  taught  drawing.  But 
when  your  father  is  tired  of  teaching  you,  which  will 
be  every  other  day,  I  '11  teach  you  what  /  know.  It  may 
be  nothing  much,  but  it  has  served  me  as  well  as  many 
a  grander  education  has  served  grander  folks.  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  it  I  would  n't  have  been  your  mother." 

Which  was  true  enough. 

She  taught  her  Julia  then  all  the  secrets  of  house- 
keeping, against  her  Julia's  will  often,  for  she  was  a 
book-worm  by  nature.  She  taught  her  the  secrets  of 
economy,  against  her  will  also,  for  she  was  a  born  spend- 
thrift. 

Further,  she  instructed  her  in  what  she  called  the 
Arts,  and  the  first  of  these,  though  she  did  not  call  it  by 
that  name,  was  Reticence. 

"Don't  let  folks  know  all  that  you  know,"  she  said. 
"Your  father  has  given  you  learning,  but  if  you  take  my 
advice  you  '11  keep  quiet  about  it,  hide  it  away,  tuck  it 
into  the  middle  of  you.  It  will  come  through  all  right 
as  the  flavor  comes  through  a  pudding." 

The  second  Art  was  what  she  called  Attention. 

"It 's  not  the  women  that  talk,"  she  would  say,  "and 
that  are  always  showing  off  that  get  on.  It 's  the  women 
that  take  time  to  notice  things.  Above  all,  it 's  the  women 
that  listen." 

These  words  came  into  Julia's  mind  as  she  sat  that 
evening  looking  up  at  the  portrait.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
though  her  mother  were  even  now  urging  her  to  listen, 


14  WINTERGREEN 

endeavoring  to  advise  her  from  some  higher  sphere  of 
influence.  She  remembered  how  in  that  very  room  she 
had  so  often  admonished  and  advised  her  father.  She 
sat  fascinated,  looking  up,  but  no  definite  message  came 
to  her.  Her  mind  kept  circling  like  a  squirrel  in  a  wheel. 
All  the  usual  expedients  occurred  to  her  and  were  re- 
jected. She  would  never  let  the  Skellicks,  and  go  into 
rooms  in  Rathness.  She  would  rather  do  anything  than 
hand  over  the  household  gods  to  strangers.  She  real- 
ized, nevertheless,  that  something  must  be  done.  She 
had  pledged  herself  to  send  money  to  half  a  dozen  people 
before  Christmas.  And  if  she  had  to  pay  wages  and 
keep  herself  and  her  household  as  befitted  her  position 
in  life,  she  could  not  do  so  without  appealing  to  Mr. 
Carrick.  On  her  mother's  side  she  had  no  connections 
except  those  far-off  cousins  in  America  who  looked  upon 
her  as  their  rich  relation.  Her  father's  family  had  had 
no  dealings  with  him  after  what  they  termed  his  mesal- 
liance. To  humiliate  herself  before  any  of  them  was 
quite  out  of  the  question.  Yet  no  other  way  out  of  her 
difficulties  had  been  revealed  to  her  when  the  evening 
post  interrupted  her. 


CHAPTER  II 

In  which  the  Historic  Adventures  of  the  Principal 
Heroine  begin 

DAWSON  brought  up  the  letter — for  there  was  only 
one — partly  because  it  was  her  duty  to  do  so,  and 
partly  because  she  wanted  to  reconnoiter.  Dalrymple 
and  she,  now  joined  by  a  common  interest,  had,  since  the 
lawyer  left,  been  awaiting  developments.  As  time  had 
passed  on,  however,  -and  nothing  had  happened,  a  change 
had  come  over  the  spirit  of  their  dream.  It  did  not  occur 
to  them  that  their  mistress  could  dispense  with  their  serv- 
ices, but  they  began  to  think  that  there  might  be  some 
difficulty  in  getting  her  to  see  eye  to  eye  with  them. 
The  question  therefore  now  was  whether,  if  their  wages 
were  not  raised  sufficiently,  they  should  or  should  not 
stay  on  at  the  Skellicks.  In  this  connection  they  remem- 
bered various  advantages  of  their  present  situation  which 
they  could  not  be  sure  of  finding  elsewhere. 

"When  ye  've  been  a  long  time  in  a  place,"  said  Daw- 
son,  who  was  inclined  to  be  sentimental,  "ye  canna  help 
gettin'  a  kind  o'  fond  o'  't." 

While  she  spoke  her  gaze  wandered  round  the  kitchen 
which  had  once  been  the  pride  and  delight  of  Jane  Win- 
tergreen,  and  which  still  retained  from  beyond  the  years 
something  of  the  impress  of  her  personality. 

"She  never  grudges,"  Dawson  went  on,  referring  to 
the  present  owner.  "She  likes  ye  to  tea  an'  supper  a' 

15 


16  WINTERGREEN 

body  that  comes.    Ye  wouldna  get  that  in  some  places." 

"Hoots  ay,"  said  Dalrymple.  "They  're  that  desperate 
to  keep  ye  noo  they  'd  crawl  on  their  knees  to  please  ye. 
Jess  Kirk  was  tellin'  me  the  ither  day  she  'd  as  mony 
folk  in  every  day  as  she  liked  an'  her  mistress  never  says 
a  word." 

"Does  she  no'?'  said  Dawson.  "Weel,  weel!  A'  the 
same  I  'd  be  sweer  to  leave  Miss  Glenferlie.  She  kens 
what  guid  wark  is  an'  she  can  show  ye  things  hersel'. 
If  she  's  willin'  to  gi'e  a  rise  at  a',  I  '11  bide  till  I  ha'  time 
to  look  aboot  me  onyway." 

"Ye  'd  better,"  said  Dalrymple.  "In  some  o'  they 
hooses  whaur  they  pay  a  ransom  they  tell  me  it 's  because 
they  ha'  to  dae  't  to  keep  the  maids  f rae  rinnin'  awa' 
again  whenever  they  see  their  kitchens." 

"Aweel,"  said  Dawson,  "rise  or  nae  rise  I  'm  thinkin' 
I  '11  stay  on  till  Christmas." 

"I  '11  no'  say  that,"  said  Dalrymple,  "but  I  '11  no'  be 
onreasonable.  I  '11  tak'  the  long  time  she  has  been  my 
mistress  into  conseederation." 

"Ay,  that 's  but  fair,"  said  Dawson,  and  she  might 
have  said  a  good  deal  more  had  not  the  door-bell  rung 
just  then  and  obliged  her  to  go  and  open  it  to  the  post- 
man. 

When  she  returned  from  taking  up  the  letter,  however, 
Dalrymple  was  waiting  for  her  with  some  eagerness. 

"Aweel?"  she  said  as  soon  as  Dawson  appeared. 
"Aweel,  did  she  say  onything?" 

"No'  a  word,"  said  Dawson.  "She  was  sittin'  in  the 
dark  there  lookin'  gey  bethochtet-like." 

"Bethochtet?"  exclaimed  Dalrymple.  "Ah,  then  she'll 
be  comin'  forrit." 

"I  wouldna  wonder,"  said  Dawson.     "I  said  I  would 


HISTORIC  ADVENTURES  BEGIN  17 

bide  on  whether  or  no',  but  there  's  nae  use  dashin'  at 
things,  an'  it 's  my  opeenion,  noo  that  I  've  seen  her,  that 
if  we  staund  firm  she  '11  jist  gi'e  what  we  ask  for." 

"Then  the  thing  to  dae,"  said  Dalrymple,  "is  jist  to 
staund  by  ane  anither." 

"That 's  the  plan,"  agreed  Dawson.  "Efter  a',  when 
ye  can  get  it  what  for  should  ye  no'  tak'  it?" 

Miss  Glenferlie  had  moved  over  to  the  window  where 
the  last  of  the  sunset  light  stHl  lingered,  and  had  sat  down 
to  read  her  letter. 

For  some  time  after  that  there  was  absolute  silence. 
Then  suddenly  and  faintly: 

"Lord  help  me!"  she  ejaculated. 

To  save  time  and  tedium  it  will  be  best  here  to  give 
the  letter. 

It  was  dated  from  a  London  hotel. 

"Dear  Miss  Glenferlie,"  it  ran.  "It  is  with  an  emo- 
tion which  I  can  hardly  repress  sufficiently  to  hold  my 
pen  that  I  sit  down  after  the  lapse  of  four  years  to  let 
you  know  that  I  have  now  quite  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  Lusitania  disaster.  I  need  not  harrow  your 
feelings  with  details  nor  rend  your  heart  with  an  account 
of  my  subsequent  sufferings.  All  I  need  say  until  we 
meet  to  exchange  experiences  and  revive  old  memories 
is  that  no  sooner  was  I  cured  sufficiently  to  leave  hospital 
than  I  at  once  set  out  to  find  you.  I  never  met  any  one 
who  understood  me  as  you  do,  never  any  one  with  whom 
I  could  converse  so  freely.  It  was  only  yesterday,  how- 
ever, that  1  found  your  address  in  a  book  you  lent  me 
and  which  must  have  been  in  my  pocket  when  the  dis- 
aster happened. 


18  WINTERGREEN 

"What  thoughts  the  sight  of  it  conjured  up!  But  I 
wish  to  forestall  nothing.  I  only  write  this  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  ascertained  by  telephone  that  at  the  hotel  at 
Rathness  they  can  give  me  a  room  next  Friday,  also  that 
you  are  still  alive  and  at  the  same  address.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  relieved  I  was  to  hear  this,  because  I  had 
heard  nothing  of  what  had  happened  to  you  from  the 
moment  when  we  stood  together  on  the  deck  and  you 
said:  'What  was  that?'  when  the  torpedo  struck.  Since 
then,  up  till  a  few  days  ago,  I  have  been  in  the  unfor- 
tunate position  of  my  mind  being  absolutely  blank.  Now, 
however,  it  is  filled  with  the  thought  of  you.  Till  Friday 
then,  when  you  shall  see  me  as  soon  as  may  be  after  my 
arrival. 

"Yours  ever  in  the  bonds  of  the  awful  past, 

"JAMES  ANDERSON  MACFARLANK." 

Miss  Glen fer lie  had  read  this  letter  over  twice  before 
she  took  it  in,  in  all  its  bearings.  She  did  so  then,  how- 
ever, and  it  was  at  this  point  that  she  gave  vent  to  her 
ejaculation. 

So  this,  she  reflected  bitterly,  was  what  had  come  to 
her  because  her  mother  had  taught  her  to  be  a  good  lis- 
tener. This  was  the  result  of  being  kind.  The  more 
you  did  for  some  people,  it  seemed,  the  more  you  were 
expected  to  do.  As  if  it  were  not  enough  to  have  saved 
this  man's  life,  he  now  evidently  expected  her  to  be  de- 
lighted to  receive  him  whenever  he  should  choose  to  visit 
her.  And  by  a  chance  that  was  nothing  less  than  dia- 
bolical he  had  forgotten  all  the  circumstances  of  their 
last  meeting,  when  he  had  clung  to  the  plank  more  like  a 
terrified  animal  than  a  rational  human  being.  If  he  had 
had  any  recollection  at  all  of  the  way  in  which  he  had 


HISTORIC  ADVENTURES  BEGIN  19 

treated  her,  drinking  off  the  brandy  which  she  had  meant 
for  them  both,  surely  even  he,  impossible  as  he  was, 
would  not  have  dared  again  to  approach  her.  But  there 
it  was.  His  mind  at  that  point  was  blank.  Had  there 
ever  been  anything  so  unfortunate?  And  now  again  he 
was  coming  hand  over  hand,  groping  into  her  life  as  he 
had  groped  his  way  along  the  plank.  The  very  thought 
of  him  made  her  shudder — not  so  much  the  thought  of 
him  hideous,  abject,  half -drowned,  as  she  had  last  seen 
him,  but  the  thought  of  him  at  the  Rathness  Hotel  in 
his  enormous  checks  and  his  pink  silk  neckties.  She 
imagined  him  flourishing  his  diamond  rings  in  the  smok- 
ing-room, and  claiming  her  as  an  intimate  friend,  as  he 
would  be  sure  to  do. 

He  had  attached  himself  to  her  on  board  ship  and  he 
would  doubtless  attach  himself  to  her  now,  making  her 
the  talk  of  the  whole  neighborhood.  And  how  they  would 
talk !  With  what  zest !  With  what  relish !  Miss  Glen- 
ferlie's  young  man!  Miss  Glenferlie's  admirer!  She 
could  hear  them. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  refuse  him  admission  to  the 
Skellicks  to  repudiate  him  altogether,  seemed  impossible. 
It  was  evident  that  his  mind  was  in  a  precarious  state. 
Any  violent  disappointment  might  plunge  it  once  more 
into  the  sea  of  blankness  from  which  it  had  just  emerged. 
She  realized  this  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  for  just 
as  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  on  that  former  dreadful 
occasion  to  push  him  off  the  plank  into  the  Atlantic,  so 
now  for  fear  of  what  might  be  the  consequences  she 
never  thought  of  refusing  to  see  him.  It  was  just  at 
this  point,  however,  that  the  plan  of  evacuating  a  position 
which  had  become  untenable  first  occurred  to  her.  But 
it  only  made  her  feel  worse  than  before  as  realization 


20  WINTERGREEN 

came  to  her  that  she  was  hemmed  in  by  lack  of  money. 
Moreover,  from  what  she  already  knew  of  Mr.  Mac- 
farlane  it  was  certain  that  wherever  she  went  he  would 
follow  her.  He  had  found  her  address  before.  He 
would  find  it  again. 

That  night  she  dreamed,  when  she  slept  at  all,  that 
an  old  man  of  the  sea  was  strangling  her  with  a  pink  silk 
necktie. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  but  she  was  in  no  mood  to 
go  to  church.  Once  there,  however,  it  occurred  to  her 
that  prayer  might  help  her.  She  prayed  therefore  so 
fervently  all  through  the  first  hymn  and  prayer  and  the 
Old  Testament  lesson  that  a  woman  behind  thought  she 
must  be  ill  and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 

At  this  she  sat  up,  and,  being  provided  with  an  open 
hymn-book  by  her  solicitous  friend  behind,  she  was  en- 
deavoring to  fix  her  attention  upon  it  when  over  the 
page  her  eye  was  caught  and  held  by  a  little  picture  un- 
obtrusively placed  in  the  corner  of  a  stained  glass  win- 
dow opposite.  The  picture  was  of  Jesus  in  the  house 
of  Martha  and  Mary.  Martha  was  depicted  as  standing 
at  a  table  baking,  and,  for  the  first  time,  though  she  had 
seen  the  picture  often  before,  the  resemblance  of 
Martha's  homely  face  to  that  of  her  own  mother  struck 
her.  She  had  seen  her  mother  so,  many  a  time,  when 
she  was  baking  in  the  kitchen  at  the  Skellicks.  The 
morning  sunshine  falling  through  the  colored  glass  was 
setting  the  little  scene  aglow,  and  to  the  tired  woman  the 
picture  of  that  old-time  home  seemed  to  be  illuminated 
with  the  light  of  her  own  childhood.  Again,  as  on  the 
night  before,  a  vivid  realization  of  her  mother's  presence 
came  to  her.  This  time,  however,  she  saw  her  not  in 


HISTORIC  ADVENTURES  BEGIN  21 

the  rose-colored  brocade,  but  in  her  old-fashioned  work- 
ing-garments. 

They  still  hung  in  a  wardrobe  at  the  Skellicks.  Till 
the  day  of  her  death  the  lady  of  the  house  had  preserved 
them. 

"No;  they  are  part  of  the  happiest  days  of  my  life," 
she  had  said  once,  when  her  daughter  had  suggested  send- 
ing them  to  a  sale  of  jumbles. 

The  daughter  thought  of  these  words  now  when  she 
ought  to  have  been  thinking  of  other  things.  Her  mother 
had  been  happiest  as  a  servant.  Though  like  Martha 
she  had  been  careful  and  troubled  about  many  things 
then,  it  had  not  been  about  her  own  affairs.  It  had  not 
been  about  the  larger  responsibilities.  She  had  had  her 
orders,  and  she  had  carried  them  out  with  all  their  might, 
taking  a  daily  pleasure  in  the  work  of  her  own  hands,  in 
the  comfort  of  others — in  the  perfection  of  her  skill. 

How  much  better  she  had  been  as  the  housekeeper  of 
the  Skellicks  than  she  had  been  afterwards  as  its  mis- 
tress, with  clothes  and  food  to  provide  for  a  whole  house- 
hold, with  wages  to  pay,  with  endless  calls  at  all  times 
upon  her  reserves  of  tact  and  patience ! 

How  often  she  must  have  longed  for  the  comfortable 
solitude  of  her  housekeeper's  room  again,  for  the  quiet 
hours  of  leisure  she  had  found  there,  unbroken  by  her 
laird's  complainings.  There  she  had  been  undisturbed 
by  sordid  anxieties,  unworried  by  social  obligations. 
With  what  regret  she  must  have  contemplated  her  past 
sometimes,  wishing  herself  back  once  more  on  the  old 
plane,  haunted  by  it  as  by  some  fourth  dimension,  always 
tantalizingly  close  at  hand,  yet  impossible  of  attainment! 

But  at  this  point  in  her  meditations  Miss  Glenferlie 


22  WINTERGREEN 

felt  her  mind  for  a  moment  stop  thinking  altogether. 
Like  Mr.  Macfarlane's  it  became  an  absolute  blank,  so 
that  a  space  must  have  been  left  in  the  continuity  of  its 
workings  like  that  which  one  finds  before  the  beginning 
of  a  new  paragraph. 

And  then — all  at  once — out  of  nothing — out  of  every- 
thing— the  realization  suddenly  emerged  that  the  way 
which  had  been  barred  to  her  mother  was  not  barred 
to  her;  that  there  was  nothing  to  hinder  her  from  with- 
drawing herself  whenever  she  pleased  from  her  present 
predicament ;  that  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  her  from 
becoming  what  her  mother  had  been  and  had  been  proud 
to  be — a  domestic  servant. 

No  wonder  she  looked  awe-stricken  as  she  sat  there 
in  contemplation  of  this  simple  yet  complete  solution  of 
all  her  difficulties.  For  there  it  was,  ready-made,  and 
so  obvious  that  the  only  wonder  was  that  she  had  not 
before  thought  of  it.  Her  mental  struggles  and  pertur- 
bations of  the  night  before  seemed  in  face  of  her  discov- 
ery so  ridiculous  that  she  smiled  broadly  and  suddenly, 
and  then  laughed  softly,  to  the  scandal  and  consternation 
of  her  friend  behind. 

The  apparently  insurmountable  obstruction  in  her  path 
had  disappeared  like  that  Himalayan  torrent  over  which 
one  night  an  explorer  with  terrific  difficulty  transported 
his  whole  cavalcade,  only  to  find  it  dry  next  morning. 

All  her  worries  had  vanished  into  thin  air.  She  would 
not  need  to  be  unkind  to  a  half -demented  invalid.  She 
would  need  no  more  large  supplies  of  money.  She  would 
need  no  more  servants.  She  would  not  need  to  let  the 
house.  She  would  need  no  clothes  beyond  those  which 
her  mother  had  worn.  Even  her  nom  de  guerre  was  ready 
for  her — her  mother's  name — Jane  Wintergreen.  She 


HISTORIC  ADVENTURES  BEGIN  23 

would  not  need  to  stint  her  charities.  She  would  not 
need  to  return  to  ordinary  life  until  she  had  squared 
things  up  generously  not  only  with  them  but  with  Mr. 
Carrick. 

No  sooner  did  the  "  Scotsman  "  arrive  the  next  morn- 
ing at  the  Skellicks  than  Miss  Glenferlie  seized  upon 
it,  and  in  about  five  minutes  she  had  fixed  upon  the  fol- 
lowing advertisement: 

"  Wanted  immediately  a  cook-housekeeper  for  doctor's 
house.  Wages  £52.  Liberal  outings.  Four  in  family. 
Apply  Mrs.  Adair,  The  Bow  House,  Cauldstanes,  East- 
shire." 

In  response  to  this  she  wrote  immediately  and  posted 
with  her  own  hands  the  following  application: 

"  Mrs.  Adair. 

"  Madam :  I  beg  to  apply  for  the  post  of  cook-house- 
keeper advertised  in  to-day's  'Scotsman.'  I  am  un- 
able to  give  any  guarantee  of  respectability  except  my 
own  assurance  that  I  have  been  thoroughly  trained  in 
housework  of  all  kinds,  and  that  I  have  usually  suc- 
ceeded in  accomplishing  what  I  have  undertaken  to  do. 
In  lieu  of  reference  I  offer  to  pay  my  railway  fare  and 
to  arrive  in  Cauldstanes  by  to-morrow  evening,  when  I 
hope  that  you  will  grant  me  an  interview. 
"  Yours  truly, 

"JANE  WINTERGREEN." 

Ideas  generate  ideas,  and  when  it  came  to  her  actual 
departure  the  new  Wintergreen's  mind  was  running  so 
smoothly  that  everything  went  like  oiled  clockwork. 

The  manner  of  her  going  deserves  record  as  an  ex- 


24  WINTERGREEN 

ample — if  economy  of  sensation  be  taken  into  account — 
of  one  of  the  most  entirely  successful  domestic  manceu- 
vers  of  the  period. 

What  happened  was  this. 

On  the  Wednesday  evening  Mr.  Carrick,  returning 
from  his  office  late,  found  a  letter  lying  waiting  for  him, 
addressed  in  Miss  Glenferlie's  familiar  handwriting.  It 
had  been  left,  the  maid  explained,  by  an  elderly  woman 
of  respectable  exterior  so  far  as  she  could  judge  in  the 
dusk,  who  was  dressed  in  black  and  closely  veiled,  and 
who  had  handed  it  over  in  silence  and  then  departed. 

Mr.  Carrick  read  the  letter  on  the  spot. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Carrick,"  it  ran.  "  This  is  to  let  you  know 
that  I  am  leaving  the  Skellicks  for  a  time,  and  that  even 
if  I  do  not  return  for  many  months  there  will  be  no  need 
for  anxiety.  I  have  given  orders  that  in  the  meantime 
all  my  correspondence  is  to  be  handed  to  you,  and  I 
now  ask  you  to  deal  with  it  and  with  all  other  business 
as  you  think  fit.  I  do  not  wish  the  house  to  be  shut  up. 
But  I  wish  the  two  servants  to  be  dismissed.  They  had 
both  virtually  given  notice  so  that  there  will  be  no  need 
to  pay  them  more  than  a  month's  wages.  My  old  friends 
the  Clackmannans,  who  were  in  charge  while  I  was  in 
America,  and  who  know  how  a  house  should  be  kept, 
will  be  delighted  to  be  installed  again  at  the  lodge  at  any 
wage  you  suggest. 

"  With  kind  regards  and  thanking  you  in  advance,  I 
remain,  yours  sincerely, 

"  JULIA  GLENFERLIE." 

Mr.  Carrick  on  reading  this  went  at  once  into  his  study 
and  rang  the  bell. 


HISTORIC  ADVENTURES  BEGIN          25 

"  Who  did  you  say  brought  this  ?  "  he  said  when  the 
maid  entered. 

He  tapped  the  letter  with  his  eye-glass. 

"An  old  woman,  did  you  say?"  he  added. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  maid. 

"A  stranger?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  are  sure  of  that?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well  keep  some  supper  for  me,"  said  Mr.  Carrick, 
"and  tell  Mrs.  Carrick  that  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour 
or  so.  I  have  to  go  out  now." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Skellicks, 
and  soon  the  astonished  Dawson  was  opening  the  door 
to  him. 

"Is  Miss  Glenferlie  in?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Dawson,  wondering,  for  it  was  dark 
night  outside. 

He  was  ushered  into  the  dining-room,  where  a  bright 
wood  fare  was  burning  and  preparations  made  for  a  dainty 
meal.  But  he  had  not  sat  long  there  listening  intently, 
before  the  silence  of  the  house  was  disturbed  by  sounds 
of  scurry  here  and  there.  Doors  opened  and  closed. 
Footsteps  could  be  heard  on  the  stairs — agitated  whis- 
perings in  the  hall  outside. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Mr.  Carrick  to  himself. 

Then  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened  again,  and 
Dawson,  rather  paler  than  usual,  appeared. 

"The  mistress  is  not  there,  sir,"  she  said  in  a  per- 
turbed voice.  "She  must  have  gone  out  or  something." 

"Does  she  generally  go  out  at  this  hour?"  said  Mr. 
Carrick. 


26  WINTERGREEN 

"Never  sir,"  said  Dawson,  "and  she  was  in  at  tea- 
time  for  I  took  her  tea  up  to  the  boudore.  Oh,  sir, 
can  anything  have  happened  to  her?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Carrick,  determined  to  avert  if 
possible  even  the  beginnings  of  a  nine  days'  wonder. 
"You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  there  is  no  need  for 
anxiety.  I  had  not  expected  that  Miss  Glenferlie  had 
already  started,  but  I  knew  that  she  was  going  away." 

"Going  away,  sir?"  ejaculated  Dawson. 

"Going  away?"  echoed  another  voice  from  the  door- 
way. 

Mr.  Carrick,  looking  up,  met  the  round  eyes  of  Dal- 
rymple  fixed  upon  him  in  blank  dismay. 

Perturbed  as  he  was  himself,  he  yet  appreciated  the 
tableau. 

"Yes,  going  away,"  he  said  with  a  gravity  which  he 
found  it  difficult  to  preserve,  "and  I  have  been  instructed 
to  tell  you  that  your  mistress  has  given  up  her  situation." 


CHAPTER  III 

Which    begins   with   a   Mystery    and   ends   with   a 
Revelation 

WHATEVER  satisfaction  Mr.  Carrick  may  have  felt 
in  turning  the  tables  upon  her  servants,  he  was 
by  no  means  satisfied  in  his  own  mind  that  all  was  well 
with  Miss  Glenferlie.  As  he  tramped  back  to  Rathness 
along  the  windy  road,  his  mind  was  full  of  the  letter 
she  had  written,  and  the  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more 
it  seemed  to  him  mysterious  and  extraordinary. 

By  the  time  he  reached  home  he  was  very  much  wor- 
ried. Mrs.  Carrick  was  sitting  up  for  him.  He  found 
her  by  the  drawing-room  fire  deep  in  one  of  Mrs.  Belloc 
Lowndes's  novels. 

"I  only  hope  she  has  n't  done  for  herself,"  he  said  to 
her.  "She  may  have  inherited  the  tendency  from  the 
laird.  He  was  always  threatening  to  'go  out'  as  he  called 
it,  and  she  has  never  been  quite  the  same  since  the  Lusi- 
tania." 

"But  what  should  she  commit  suicide  for?"  said  Mrs. 
Carrick. 

"We  had  a  talk  the  other  day  about  money  matters," 
replied  her  husband,  "and  I  told  her  she  had  overdrawn 
her  account,  and  that  she  must,  for  a  time  at  least,  stop 
giving  money  to  charities.  She  may  have  taken  this  too 
much  to  heart." 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Carrick,  laying  aside 

27 


28  WINTERGREEN 

"The  Chink  in  the  Armor"  as  she  spoke.  "If  she  had 
been  going  to  do  that  she  would  n't  have  written  this  letter 
and  all  those  directions  about  what  was  to  be  done  till 
she  came  back.  No,  if  she  's  dead,  it  is  much  more  likely 
that  she  has  been  murdered." 

Mrs.  Carrick  said  the  last  words  in  a  whisper,  looking 
over  her  shoulder  as  she  spoke. 

"Murdered?"  exclaimed  the  lawyer.  "For  heaven's 
sake  don't  say  that,  Mary!" 

"Well,  you  asked  my  opinion,"  said  Mrs.  Carrick, 
"and  it 's  this — the  woman  who  brought  the  letter  was  the 
murderess." 

"Oh  nonsense!"  exclaimed  her  husband.  "Is  it  likely 
she  would  so  expose  herself?" 

"So  far  as  I  have  heard  she  did  not  expose  herself," 
said  his  wife.  "She  came  in  the  dusk  and  thickly  veiled, 
too ;  did  n't  she  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carrick,  "but " 

"Very  well,"  interrupted  his  wife,  "the  first  things 
I  would  make  sure  of  would  be:  is  or  is  not  that  letter 
forged?" 

"Forged?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carrick. 

"Yes,  forged,"  said  his  wife.  "Is  it  a  genuine  letter 
or  is  it  a  red  herring  drawn  across  the  track  ?" 

"Really,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Carrick,  "you  do  get  the 
strangest  notions!" 

"I  may  or  I  may  not,"  said  Mary.  "But  how  can  you 
be  sure  that  this  letter  is  from  Miss  Glenferlie?" 

"Because  I  know  her  handwriting,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
rick, taking  the  letter  once  more  out  of  his  pocket  and 
examining  it.  tcl  know  the  way  she  strokes  her  t's  and 
dots  her  i's." 

"And  so  do  other  people  perhaps,"  said  his  wife.    "She 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION         29 

has  a  very  characteristic  handwriting,  and  that  is  al- 
ways the  easiest  kind  to  imitate.  Besides,  you  must 
admit  that  the  letter  is  very  strange.  There  are  queer 
gaps  in  it.  If  she  is  going  away  for  months,  does  it 
not  seem  unnatural  that  she  should  leave  no  address : 
not  even  with  you,  her  confidential  lawyer?  Why  should 
she  cut  herself  off  from  everybody  like  that?" 

"She  will  be  sending  the  address,"  said  Mr.  Carrick. 

"She  doesn't  say  she  will,  anyhow,"  said  his  wife: 
"and  another  queer  thing;  she  doesn't  ask  for  a  penny 
of  money.  Now  if — as  you  say — her  bank  account  is 
overdrawn — how  is  she  going  to  get  it  if  you  do  not 
advance  it?  Will  she  overdraw  more?" 

"Oh,  no,  she  won't  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Carrick.  "She 
has  a  horror  of  overdrawing.  And  she  knows  she  can 
borrow  from  me." 

"Yet  she  has  not  done  so.  That  seems  queer,  does  n't 
it?  Going  away  for  months  without  a  penny  in  her 
pocket." 

"She  must  have  a  few  pounds  left." 

"Well — a  few  pounds — and  with  no  destination  given. 
Really,  Edward,  if  I  were  you  I  should  be  very  uneasy." 

"So  I  am,"  said  Edward  irritably.  "But  what  on 
earth  can  I  do?  After  all  I  have  no  business  to  raise 
a  hue  and  cry  after  her.  She  might  be  furious  if  I  did. 
All  I  can  do  is  to  behave  as  if  everything  were  all  right." 

"But  what  if  it's  not  all  right?"  persisted  Mary. 
"What  if  she  is  lying  somewhere  buried  in  the  grounds 
while  her  murderers  are  making  off  with  her  valuables 
and  we  are  sitting  here  allowing  them  to  escape?" 

"We  can  easily  make  sure  about  the  valuables,  any- 
how," said  the  lawyer,  "without  any  outsider  being  mixed 
up  in  it.  There  is  an  inventory  in  the  office  which  was 


30  WINTERGREEN 

made  by  her  mother  and  brought  by  Miss  Glenferlie  her- 
self up  to  date.  When  the  servants  have  gone  to-morrow 
I  will  go  over  everything  myself  before  the  Clackmannans 
take  over  charge." 

It  was  past  midnight  when  they  came  to  this  conclusion, 
and  Mr.  Carrick,  more  at  ease  in  consequence,  betook 
himself  to  rest. 

After  all,  he  remarked  to  his  wife  from  the  recesses 
of  his  dressing-room,  why  should  a  woman  of  Miss  Glen- 
f  erlie's  age  not  be  at  liberty  to  do  what  she  liked  ?  Surely, 
also,  if  she  chose  to  go  off  in  an  unusual  manner  her 
lawyer  could  not  be  held  responsible. 

His  wife's  reply  from  her  pillow  was: 

"No,  so  long  as  she  did  go  off." 

Which,  as  her  husband  said  next  morning,  was  very 
inconsiderate  of  Mrs.  Carrick,  and  caused  him  to  dream 
all  night  of  finding  corpses  among  Scotch  fir-trees. 

When  the  new  Jane  Wintergreen's  letter  of  applica- 
tion arrived  the  next  afternoon  at  Cauldstanes,  two  nota- 
ble inhabitants  of  that  ilk,  Miss  Clara  and  Miss  Lydia 
Fortescue,  were  seated  at  their  drawing-room  window 
overlooking  the  Bow  House.  This  must  not  be  taken 
to  mean  that  they  themselves  were  visible  while  they 
occupied  this  coign  of  vantage.  White  lace  curtains  hung 
between  them  and  publicity.  None  the  less,  between  the 
white  palm  leaves  and  roses  of  the  design,  a  clear  view 
was  easily  obtainable  of  the  large  three-storied  mansion 
across  the  street.  It  was  built  of  dark  freestone,  which 
gave  it  rather  a  gloomy  look,  and  bulged  in  the  center  into 
the  bow  from  which  it  took  its  name.  It  stood  withdrawn 
from  the  other  houses  behind  a  small  roughly  paved 
courtyard,  and  was  divided  from  the  street  by  an  iron 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION         31 

railing  with  a  gate  on  which  was  Dr.  Adair's  brass  plate. 

It  was  a  dull  afternoon,  with  showers  of  rain.  The 
narrow  High  Street  had  a  dreary  and  forlorn  appearance. 
Straws  and  pieces  of  paper  were  blowing  about,  but 
hardly  any  one  passed.  The  Bow  House  itself  had  a 
depressed  and  deserted  look.  Its  brasses  were  dim  and 
spotted  with  drops  of  rain.  The  lamp  which  hung  from 
the  arch  above  the  gate  was  dirty  and  neglected-looking, 
The  whole  house  seemed  to  blink  disconsolately  at  the 
passers-by  from  behind  its  half-drawn  yellow  blinds  as 
though  sinking  from  sheer  ennui  and  downheartedness 
into  an  uncomfortable  sleep. 

But  to  the  two  women  opposite  there  was  nothing  dull 
or  depressing  about  it.  No  stage,  no  arena,  could  have 
been  of  more  absorbing  interest.  The  very  unpromising- 
ness  of  its  appearance  was  in  their  eyes  an  added  attrac- 
tion. It  gave  a  certain  piquancy  to  its  dramatic  possibil- 
ities. 

The  two  Miss  Fortescues  were  twins,  and  the  physical 
differences  between  them  were  hardly  noticeable.  They 
had  narrow  wrinkled  oblong  faces  rather  like  pale  dates, 
thin-lipped  mouths,  dark  beady  eyes,  and  scanty  hair 
done  up  in  top-knots.  Their  clothes  were  mainly  re- 
markable for  the  material  which  had  been  saved  in  their 
making,  and  for  the  time  which  had  obviously  elapsed 
since  they  had  been  made.  Of  the  two  Clara  was  the 
more  modern  and  luxurious.  A  tendency  to  bronchitis 
prevented  her  going  out  when  there  was  an  east  wind. 
As  this  was  almost  always  she  spent  most  of  her  time 
indoors,  and  also  always  wore  large  shawls  which  gave 
her  a  more  elegant  and  draped  appearance  than  her  sister. 
She  was  besides  what  was  known  in  Cauldstanes  as  a 
character.  Her  face  had  the  grim  expression,  relaxing" 


32  WINTERGREEN 

occasionally  into  sardonic  smiles,  which  is  supposed  to 
be  associated  with  detective  ability,  and  she  had  such  a 
talent  for  finding  out  things  about  her  neighbors  that  for 
want  of  material  it  often  made  material  for  itself.  She 
was  in  short  one  of  that  large  and  too  much  ignored  army 
of  born  novelists  and  dramatists  who  neither  read  nor 
write. 

"Though  I  wish  to  goodness  she  would,"  said  Mr. 
Pennifeather,  the  parish  minister,  "instead  of  dabbling  in 
real  life  and  complicating  it  the  way  she  does." 

He  disliked  her  presence,  even  in  the  church,  and  was 
glad  when  it  was  too  cold  or  too  wet  for  her  to  appear 
there. 

"But  how  unchristian  of  you,  James,"  said  his  sister 
once  when  he  told  her  this. 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  James.  "Yet  even  Christ  was  a 
little  unchristian  about  some  people." 

Clara's  public  appearances,  however,  were  few  and 
far  between. 

Lydia  did  the  shopping,  the  district  visiting,  the  calling 
for  her.  Lydia  went  to  meetings,  to  tea-parties,  to  gar- 
den-parties. Lydia,  as  her  sister  was  wont  to  say,  was 
the  social  one,  but  never  surely  did  social  butterfly  flutter 
with  worse  grace  or  more  unwillingly. 

"For  one  thing  I  look  as  though  I  had  come  out  of  the 
ark,"  she  said  once  to  Clara  when  asked  the  reason  of 
her  repugnance  to  going  to  a  tennis-party.  She  was 
standing  at  the  moment  before  a  mirror  putting  on  a 
toque  which  Clara  had  just  trimmed  for  her. 

"So  long  as  you  look  like  a  lady,  Lydia,  that  is  of  no 
consequence,"  said  Clara  firmly. 

"And  I  never  know  what  to  say,"  Lydia  continued. 
"Nobody  wants  to  speak  to  me.  I  am  so  uninteresting." 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION         33 

"All  the  better,"  Clara  had  replied,  "you  can  listen. 
And  since  no  one  speaks  to  you,  you  will  not  be  told  not 
to  repeat  anything." 

Such  an  injunction  indeed  would  have  been  a  calamity 
to  both  sisters.  The  fact  that  she  could  thereby  obtain 
news  for  Clara  was  the  sole  thing  that  made  Lydia's 
sorties  into  the  society  of  Cauldstanes  endurable  to  her. 
While  seated  generally  speechless  and  often  ignored  in 
corners  she  would  be  noting  in  her  mind  all  the  items  of 
gossip  which  came  within  her  range  of  hearing,  and  this 
private  entertainment  served  not  only  to  pass  the  weary 
hours,  but  insured  her  a  warm  welcome  on  her  return. 
It  gave  her  a  sense  of  power  which  she  otherwise  would 
have  missed  to  remember  that  Clara  would  be  wander- 
ing about  the  house  wearying  for  her  or  sitting  at  the 
drawing-room  window  watching  for  her  first  appearance 
round  the  corner  of  the  street.  There  was  temptation 
in  this  expectation  of  Clara's  also.  When  there  was 
nothing  interesting  to  relate  Lydia  would  be  tempted  to 
invention,  so  disappointed  was  her  sister  when  she 
brought  nothing  home  to  her.  Had  she  had  her  sister's 
gifts  she  would  undoubtedly  have  invented. 

Fortunately  for  her  veracity,  however,  Lydia  had  no 
gifts.  But  she  had  often  sorely  felt  the  want  of  them, 
and  it  had  been  a  distinct  relief  when  about  four  years 
previously  the  new  young  doctor  had  come  with  his  new 
young  wife  to  the  Bow  House  opposite.  The  spring 
day  when  they  arrived  was  a  red-letter  one  in  the  history 
of  the  Fortescues.  Instead  of  going  out  to  glean  pain- 
fully a  few  meager  items  to  bring  home  to  the  waiting 
Clara,  it  was  Clara  now  who  had  things  to  tell  when 
Lydia  returned  from  her  tea-parties.  .A  strong  source 
of  interest  was  now  ever  present  in  front  of  their  own 


34  WINTERGREEN 

drawing-room  windows.  Clara  required  no  other  enter- 
tainment than  to  keep  watch  upon  the  Bow  House.  From 
the  first  evening  when  with  sympathetic  thrills  she 
watched  the  handsome  young  doctor  laughingly  lift  his 
wife  over  the  threshold,  life  for  her  had  held  a  new  and 
keen  interest.  Hardly  an  exit  or  entrance  during  the 
hours  of  daylight  escaped  her.  The  sound  of  the  motor 
morning,  noon,  and  night  would  bring  her,  if  she  was 
awake,  to  the  window. 

Little  did  Alice,  the  bride  over  the  way,  think  of  the 
audience  that  was  almost  invariably  present  when  she 
ran  to  the  door  to  meet  her  husband  or  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck  when  he  said  farewell.  Behind  her  cur- 
tains Clara  reveled  in  all  those  little  intimate  scenes. 
Of  nights  too  she  would  often  come  and  sit  in  the  dark, 
when  Lydia  was  asleep  and  snoring,  to  watch  the  light, 
and  sometimes  the  shadows  on  the  blind,  in  the  bed- 
room window  opposite. 

But,  strangely  enough,  it  was  Lydia  who  first  proposed 
to  call  on  the  young  bride.  Clara's  impersonal  and  spec- 
tatorial  attitude  had  aroused  Lydia's  subconscious  sym- 
pathy. Without  being  aware  of  it  and  without  knowing 
why,  she  was  sorry  for  the  young  doctor  and  his  wife. 
She  called,  therefore,  and  immediately  fell  in  love  with 
Alice's  prettiness  and  naturalness.  She  came  back  to 
Clara  full  of  Mrs.  Adair's  attractions,  her  rose-bloom 
complexion,  her  forget-me-not  eyes,  her  hair  the  color 
of  ripe  corn,  her  beautiful  figure,  her  delightful  manner, 
her  kindliness,  her  charm. 

"And  I  've  asked  her  to  tea  on  Thursday,"  she  con- 
cluded. 

Thursday  was  Clara's  official  day  at  home,  when  the 
best  silver  tea-set  and  the  Rockingham  cups  were  set  out, 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION        35 

and  various  people  dropped  in,  partly  because  they  liked 
a  good  tea,  partly  from  neighborliness,  and  partly  to 
ask  for  Clara.  Clara,  in  her  best  shawl,  sat  enthroned 
in  an  armchair  talking  and  listening  at  her  ease,  while 
Lydia,  harassed  and  disheveled  often,  did  the  waiting 
and  entertaining  on  the  material  side,  with  the  aid  of  her 
younger  guests  and  a  small  erratic  servant. 

On  the  day  of  Mrs.  Adair's  first  visit,  which  happened 
to  be  the  last  of  July,  1914,  quite  a  large  party  had  as- 
sembled in  the  Fortescues'  drawing-room  to  meet  her. 
She  had  been  a  great  success.  Every  one  had  been  as 
delighted  with  her  as  Lydia  had'  been.  Even  Mrs.  Ruth- 
erford of  Longshaws,  who  was  rather  difficult,  had  called 
next  day  upon  her.  The  bride  and  her  handsome,  capa- 
ble young  husband  had  been  both  in  a  fair  way  to  be- 
come very  popular,  both  socially  and  professionally,  when 
the  war,  closing  down  upon  them  as  upon  many  other 
young  things,  put  an  end  to  their  first  careless  rapture. 

He  offered  for  service  in  the  R.A.M.C.,  was  called 
up  at  once,  and  before  Cauldstanes  realized  what  was 
happening  was  on  his  way  to  India,  leaving  the  fair  Alice 
disconsolate  at  the  Bow  House.  If  she  could  have  gone 
away  too  as  a  V.A.D.  or  a  W.A.A.C.  it  would  have  been 
better  for  her.  But  a  sister-in-law,  whose  husband  had 
also  been  called  up,  came  to  stay  with  her  for  a  week, 
and  became  suddenly  very  ill.  Before  she  had  recovered 
sufficiently  to  take  her  departure,  years  had  passed,  and 
the  war  was  all  but  over. 

By  this  time  the  Fortescues,  Lydia  openly,  Clara  se- 
cretly, had  come  to  be  of  importance  in  Alice  Adair's 
life.  Her  other  friends  in  Cauldstanes  had  all  been  too 
preoccupied  or  too  busy  to  care  much  about  her  in  her 
seclusion  after  the  first  weeks.  Not  so  Clara  and  Lydia. 


36  WINTERGREEN 

It  had  become  a  habit  with  Clara  to  watch  her.  Lydia, 
even  if  she  had  not  wanted  to  go  over  to  the  Bow  House, 
would  have  been  urged  thereto  by  her  sister,  and  with 
her  too  it  had  become  a  habit  to  come  and  go  there  at 
all  times.  She  had  often  helped  to  nurse  the  sister-in- 
law.  She  had  sat  up  at  nights  to  let  Alice  sleep.  She 
had  become  an  intimate  of  the  house.  And  when  the 
news  at  last  came  that  the  war  was  over,  that  Jack  was 
demobilized,  and  that  he  was  actually  on  his  way 
home  from  India  again,  it  came  as  a  distinct  blow  to 
Lydia. 

"Of  course  I  can't  expect  her  to  want  me  now,"  she 
confided  to  Clara  as  she  brushed  her  hair  one  night. 

"Ah,  how  do  we  know  that?"  said  Clara.  "She  may 
want  you  more  than  ever" 

"Oh,  surely  not,"  exclaimed  Lydia.  "They  're  devoted 
to  one  another." 

"She's  devoted  to  him,  you  mean,"  said  Clara. 
"You  're  tugging,  Lydia.  That  is  a  very  different  thing 
from  being  devoted  to  one  another." 

At  those  words,  which  were  uttered  in  a  tone  impos- 
sible to  ignore,  Lydia  stopped  combing  altogether. 

"Clara,  if  you  have  heard  anything,  say  it  out,"  she 
said,  fixing  her  scared  eyes  upon  her  sister's  face  in  the 
mirror. 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Lydia,  I  have  heard  some- 
thing," said  Clara.  "Sarah  Rutherford  was  in  this  after- 
noon when  you  were  out.  She  just  left  before  you  came 
in,  and  she  has  been  hearing  strange  things  about  him 
from  India." 

"Oh,  Clara!"  exclaimed  Lydia,  horrified.  "What 
things?  Mr.  Pennifeather  was  just  telling  me  to-day 
that  he  had  been  doing  so  well  there.  Some  one  at  the 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION        37 

hospital  at  Alimara  had  written  to  him  saying  that  he 

had  been  perfectly  splendid.    Don't  say " 

"My  dear  Lydia,  I  'm  not  saying  he  has  n't  been  splen- 
did, am  I  ?"  said  Clara.  "All  I  'm  saying  is  that  he  has 
been  having  a  good  time  too,  apparently.  A  Miss  Car- 
myle  there,  the  niece  of  the  commissioner  at  Alimara, 
and  he  have  made  themselves  the  talk  of  the  place.  Sarah 
is  annoyed  because  the  girl  is  a  ward  of  her  husband's 
though  she  has  never  seen  her  because  she  refused  all 
their  invitations  before  she  left  for  India.  They  were 
too  dull  for  her,  she  supposes.  The  friend — Mrs.  Crow- 
ley,  who  wrote  to  her  from  Alimara — says  she  is  a  regular 
little  flirt,  and  that  it  is  a  mercy  that  Dr.  Adair  is  leav- 
ing." 

It  may  be  imagined  how  Mrs.  Rutherford's  news  al- 
tered the  conditions  of  the  Fortescues'  intercourse  with 
the  Bow  House.  Clara  found  inexhaustible  food  for 
conversation  with  Lydia  in  the  contemplation  of  what 
was  likely  to  happen  on  the  return  of  its  absent  master. 
Lydia  could  hardly  sleep  at  nights  for  sympathy  with 
Alice,  now  busy  and  happy  and  all  unconscious  of  doom, 
in  the  midst  of  preparations  for  her  Jack's  arrival.  It 
was  heart-rending  to  Lydia  to  see  her  working  cheerfully 
about  the  house,  paler  than  of  yore,  worn  with  watching 
and  anxiety,  but  young  still  and  eager  and  with  gay  con- 
fidence in  life. 

"We  have  n't  had  time  to  tire  of  each  other,  Jack  and 
I,"  she  said  once  when  she  came  over  to  tea,  and  Clara, 
with  her  beady  eyes  upon  her,  bemoaned  the  long  absence 
of  her  husband.  "When  other  people  who  were  married 
at  the  same  time  will  be  settling  down  to  stodginess  we 
shall  be  just  beginning  again." 


38  WINTERGREEN 

"Poor  thing!"  Clara  said  afterwards. 

"Hadn't  I  better  warn  her?"  said  Lydia  in  great  dis- 
tress. 

"By  no  means!"  said  Clara  sharply.  "It  is  none  of 
our  business." 

"Anything  that  affects  her  will  always  be  my  business, 
Clara,"  said  Lydia,  "and  if  I  thought  it  would  spare 
her  anything " 

"Don't  be  a  fool  now,  Lydia  Fortescue,"  said  Clara. 

The  essence  of  the  interest  of  the  situation  to  her  lay, 
of  course,  in  Alice's  ignorance.  From  the  spectator's 
point  of  view  the  whole  denouement  would  have  been 
spoiled  had  Lydia  been  allowed  to  carry  out  her  charitable 
project.  And  it  is  likely — such  was  her  habit  of  defer- 
ence to  her  sister — that  she  would  never  have  carried  it 
out  had  not  something  else  happened  which  changed  even 
Clara's  opinion. 

This  was  weeks  later.  Jack  had  been  home  for  months, 
and,  contrary  to  expectation,  nothing  sensational  had  ac- 
companied his  homecoming.  He  had  arrived  late  one 
evening.  Alice  had  met  him  at  the  station,  and  they  had 
come  back  to  the  Bow  House  together  in  the  dusk. 

Lydia,  feeling  rather  forlorn,  had  nevertheless  ab- 
stained from  going  over  that  night  according  to  custom, 
and  this  although  Clara  pressed  her  to  do  so. 

"No,  I  will  not,"  she  had  said  with  unwonted  vehe- 
mence, and  she  had  adhered  to  her  decision. 

She  had  been  over  often  since,  however,  but  to  Clara's 
disappointment  she  had  brought  back  with  her  abso- 
lutely nothing  of  interest. 

Nothing  at  all  had  happened  which  might  not  have  hap- 
pened in  any  case.  The  young  couple,  if  a  little  older, 
a  little  more  staid  in  their  demeanor,  a  little  more  sub- 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION        39 

dued  in  their  manner  toward  each  other,  seemed  as  happy 
as  they  had  ever  been.  Their  only  troubles  seemed 
to  be  outside  ones.  They  were  worried  by  domestics  like 
other  people,  and  when  the  boarder  came  they  were 
worried  by  the  boarder. 

His  name  was  Arthur  Gardshore,  and  he  had  been  sent 
to  Jack  Adair  by  a  friend  of  his  father's — a  professor 
of  psychology — who  toward  the  end  of  the  war  had  found 
him  in  a  shell-shock  hospital  where  no  treatment  of  any 
kind  was  having  the  least  effect  upon  him.  He  had  come 
there  from  a  general  hospital  where  he  had  been  cured 
of  desperate  wounds,  but  some  obscure  lesion  was  still 
suspected.  Nothing  could  arouse  in  him  the  smallest 
desire  to  go  on  living.  Some  fundamental  source  of  his 
vitality  seemed  to  have  been  injured.  Every  one  had 
tried  his  hand  on  him  without  result.  It  was  not  con- 
venient to  keep  him  at  the  shell-shock  hospital  any  longer. 
Change  of  environment  had  therefore  been  prescribed, 
but,  having  no  friends  he  wanted  to  go  to,  and  no  initi- 
ative, the  patient  had  become  a  problem  in  every  sense 
of  the  word,  when  Jack's  father's  friend  had  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  He  at  once  took  a  fancy  to  the  derelict 
because  of  a  certain  grim  humor  which  showed  itself 
occasionally  through  the  man's  enveloping  gloom,  and 
because  of  a  strange  Barbellion-like  power  of  self-de- 
tachment and  self-criticism  which  manifested  itself  in 
him  from  time  to  time.  The  professor  desired  to  see 
more  of  him.  He  invited  him  to  return  with  him  to  his 
home,  and  there  he  kept  him  under  observation  until  he 
was  about  to  be  called  away  to  government  research 
work.  It  was  necessary  to  find  a  temporary  home  for 
Gardshore,  and  Jack  Adair  had  at  once  occurred  to  the 
professor.  In  the  early  days  of  their  life  at  Cauldstanes, 


40  WINTERGREEN 

he  had  spent  a  memorable  week  with  him  and  his  Alice, 
and  had  a  picture  still  in  his  mind  of  their  pre-war  com- 
fort and  happiness.  Cauldstanes,  he  reflected,  would  be 
a  complete  change  for  Gardshore,  and  contact  with  this 
sane  healthy  young  couple  would  do  him  as  much  good  as 
the  sea  air.  He  therefore  wrote  to  Jack  by  the  next 
post.  Gardshore,  he  told  them,  was  about  thirty,  of 
good  family,  and  with  plenty  of  money  for  all  his  wants. 
He  had  led  a  strenuous  life  before  the  war  had  de- 
stroyed him,  and  had  had  many  friends  before  he  cast 
them  off. 

"At  present  he  has  no  interest  in  anything,"  the  pro- 
fessor added.  "Yet  I  know  from  my  investigations  in 
his  case  that  once  he  was  an  engineer  and  keen  on  his 
work.  What  is  the  cause  of  his  persistent  depression 
I  have  been  so  far  unable  to  discover.  But  we  specialists, 
according  to  the  latest  theories,  are  too  ready  to  attribute 
everything  to  our  own  specialties.  This  is  the  day  of 
the  general  practitioner.  Take  my  patient  then  for  six 
weeks  and  see  if  you  can  reconstruct  him,  or  tell  me 
how  to  do  it." 

Jack  had  leaped  for  joy  when  he  received  this  letter. 

"It 's  the  very  thing  I  wanted,"  he  had  said  to  Alice, 
to  keep  me  from  getting  out  of  everything  in  this  place." 

And  Alice  had  sympathized,  though  wondering  a  little 
at  this  speech.  Jack  had  never  before  spoken  of  his  home 
as  "this  place."  But  she  had  rejoiced  too  at  the  addition 
to  their  income  which  the  patient  would  bring  with  him. 
Expenses  were  heavy,  and  Jack  was  making  a  fresh  start. 
She  received  the  guest  with  cordiality,  therefore.  But 
cordiality,  it  seemed,  was  the  last  thing  that  melancholy 
shadow  of  a  human  being  wanted.  He  regarded  all  her 
efforts  to  please  him  and  make  him  feel  at  home  out  of 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION        41 

eyes  which  were  always  forbidding  and  often  hostile. 
Next  morning  he  absolutely  refused  to  come  downstairs, 
and  Jack  apparently  could  do  nothing  with  him. 

"No,  of  course  I  can't,"  he  had  said  a  little  testily 
when  she  had  taken  him  to  task  about  it.  "I  did  n't 
expect  to  either,  until  I  had  observed  him  and  seen  what 
was  the  matter  with  him." 

Again,  after  a  few  days — 

"We  must  leave  him  to  himself,"  he  had  said.  "We 
must  leave  him  to  come  to  himself." 

After  a  fortnight  it  had  still  been  the  same.  Card- 
shore,  Jack  ordained,  was  to  do  exactly  as  he  liked.  And 
he  liked  apparently  to  remain  in  his  two  rooms  upstairs, 
thereby,  to  Alice's  mind,  casting  a  slur  upon  her  and  the 
remainder  of  her  house.  Gradually  she  came  to  hate 
him,  to  hate  his  manner  of  ringing  his  bell,  and  the  plain- 
tive way  in  which  he  made  the  most  inconvenient  re- 
quests from  his  upper  landing.  She  hated,  also,  the  way 
in  which  he  kept  Jack  talking  to  him  every  night  for 
hours  in  his  room  while  she  sat  downstairs  in  solitude. 

"But,  my  dear,  I  must  attend  to  him,"  Jack  had  said 
when  she  spoke  to  him  about  this.  "I  must  attend  to 
him  like  any  other  patient.  I  am  being  paid  to  do  it." 

"But  will  he  ever  be  better  ?"  Alice  had  sighed. 

"Of  course  he  will,"  Jack  had  replied.  "With  all 
due  deference  to  these  shell-shock  people,  I  am  convinced 
that  the  whole  thing  is  now  being  caused  by  his  liven  I 
am  putting  him  through  a  course  of  alteratives  now  which 
will  soon  set  him  all  right.  In  the  meantime  we  must 
keep  up  his  spirits  all  we  can.  If  we  even  half  cure  him 
here  he  may  make  our  fortune.  He  may  be  the  first 
of  many  patients  who  may  come  to  us  from  outside." 

But  Alice,  though  she  did  not  say  so  except  to  Lydia 


42  WINTERGREEN 

in  confidence,  thought  that  this  patient  would  cure  her 
of  ever  wanting  to  have  another  in  the  house.  He  was 
the  most  difficult  person  she  had  ever  had  to  deal  with. 
He  took  no  notice  of  any  of  the  conditions  of  life.  He 
was  never  ready  for  meals.  He  never  got  up  in  the 
mornings.  He  often  sat  up  all  night.  He  was  absolutely 
regardless  of  arrangements.  His  invariable  deference 
and  politeness  were  no  alleviation  of  this.  They  made 
things  worse  if  anything.  One  could  not  storm  at  him 
as  one  might  have  done.  Already,  though  he  had  been 
there  such  a  short  time,  he  had  driven  the  new  char- 
woman distracted.  She  had  announced  several  times 
already  that  either  she  or  Mr.  Gardshore  must  clear  out. 
This  would  have  been  nothing,  for  she  was  a  hateful 
woman,  if  they  could  have  got  any  one  to  take  her  place, 
but  not  another  soul  was  to  be  had  in  Cauldstanes  or 
anywhere  else  for  love  or  money. 

All  this,  or  something  like  this,  was  in  the  minds  of  the 
two  Miss  Fortescues  as  they  sat  in  their  drawing-room 
window  watching  the  Bow  House  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
arrival  of  Wintergreen's  application.  All  this  and  more 
— much  more.  For  at  last  a  really  sensational  thing  had 
happened,  which  for  the  last  hour  they  had  been  dis- 
cussing. 

"And  now  I  agree  with  you,  Lydia,"  said  Clara,  "that 
some  warning  should  be  given." 

Lydia's  face  blanched  but  grew  very  determined. 

"I  'm  glad  you  think  so,  Clara,"  she  said.  "I  should 
have  felt  obliged  to  give  the  warning  now  <in  any  case." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  nervously  tucking  a  strand  of 
faded  hair  behind  her  ear. 

"Don't  be  long,"  said  Gara.  "I  shall  be  anxious  till 
you  come  back." 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION         43 

"You  may  be  sure/'  Lydia  returned,  "that  I  shall  be 
no  longer  than  I  can  help,  Clara." 

She  found  Alice  in  her  dining-room  with  the  letter 
from  Wintergreen  in  her  hand. 

"I  have  had  such  splendid  news,"  she  exclaimed.  Then 
she  stopped  short.  "What's  the  matter?"  she  said,  in- 
terrupting herself. 

"Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing,"  said  Lydia  hastily,  again 
with  trembling  hand  tucking  up  her  strand  of  hair. 

"But  there  is:  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Alice  anxiously. 
"Nothing  has  happened  to  Jack,  has  there?  You  aren't 
going  to  break  something  to  me?" 

"Oh,  no,"  exclaimed  Lydia,  disconcerted.  "There — 
there  is  really  nothing  the  matter.  It 's  just  that  a  Miss 
Carmyle  from  Alimara  is  coming  to-morrow  to  stay  with 
the  Rutherfords;  that's  all." 

"A  Miss  Carmyle  from  Alimara?"  said  Alice  with 
great  relief.  "Do  I  know  her?" 

"Your — your  husband  does  I  believe,"  said  Lydia. 

"Oh,  of  course ;  /  know !"  said  Alice,  remembrance 
coming  to  her.  "She  was  very  kind  singing  to  the  men 
in  Jack's  hospital  and  getting  up  entertainments  for  them ; 
the  commissioner's  niece.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  quite 
well." 

"But  you  did  not  know  that  she  was  coming  to-mor- 
row?" said  Lydia. 

And  again  it  seemed  to  Alice  that  her  face  looked 
strange. 

"No,"  she  said,  surprised.    "Why  should  I?" 

"Oh,  because  the  doctor  and  she — were — were  great 
friends  at  Alimara,"  Lydia  blurted  out.  "People — 
noticed  them  a  good  deal — and — and  talked  about  them. 


44  WINTERGREEN 

Our  cousin — Mrs.  Rutherford — told  Clara — and  she  had 
heard  direct — and  I — I  could  n't  bear  that  she  should 
come  here — this  girl,  I  mean — without  your  knowing 
about  it." 

At  this,  not  unnaturally,  Alice  flushed  to  the  roots  of 
her  hair. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said  slowly.  "If 
— if  people  said  anything  against  Jack  out  there  I  had 
better  know  it — though,  of  course,  it 's  all  lies." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  they  said,"  said  Lydia  with 
the  sudden  terror  upon  her  of  one  who  has  let  loose  un- 
known forces  which  have  at  once  gone  beyond  control. 
"I  don't  know  what  they  said,  except  that — oh,  they 
thought  they  were  too  friendly — that  he  showed  her  too 
much  attention  at  balls  and  camping  out  and  so  on." 

"Go  on,"  said  Alice  coldly,  "there 's  more,  I  'm  sure 
of  it.  Now  you  have  begun,  you  had  better  tell  me 
everything  they  said — these  old  cats." 

"They — they  said,"  said  Lydia,  "that  that  was  the  rea- 
son that — that  she  has  just  broken  off  her  engagement." 

"Oh,  she  has  broken  off  her  engagement,  has  she?" 
said  Alice.  "Well,  is  there  any  more  ?" 

"No — oh,  no,"  said  Lydia.  "And,"  she  added  with  a 
rush  of  belated  realization,  "I  feel  now  that  I  should  n't 
have  told  you  anything." 

"Oh,  no,  dear,"  said  Alice,  laughing  a  little,  though 
her  eyes  were  cold  and  grave.  "It 's  really  all  right. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  I  believe  nothing — that  I  never 
could  believe  anything — bad — about  Jack.  Nothing  any 
one  can  say  could  make  any  difference.  We  know  each 
other  too  well  for  that." 

She  dismissed  her  visitor,  nevertheless,  as  soon  as  might 
be,  comforting  her  with  consoling  speeches.  To  any 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION         45 

outsider  it  might  have  appeared  that  Lydia  was  to  be 
pitied  rather  than  the  injured  wife. 

"What 's  the  matter  ?"  exclaimed  Clara  whenever  she 
saw  her,  just  as  Alice  had  done.  She  might  well  ask. 
Lydia  had  been  weeping  copiously,  and  even  now  could 
hardly  restrain  her  tears. 

"She  took  it  so  sp — splendidly,"  said  Lydia  as  well 
as  she  could  for  another  burst  of  sobs.  "Oh,  life  is  a 
sad  thing!" 

"Well,  my  dear,  there  's  no  use  making  it  worse  than 
it  is,"  said  Clara.  "When  she  took  it  so  very  well,  she 
probably  did  n't  feel  it  much." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Alice  at  that  moment,  sitting  medi- 
tating upon  what  Lydia  had  said,  was  not  feeling  it  much. 
One  does  not  feel  a  mustard  poultice  much  when  it  is  first 
put  on.  Alice,  twisting  her  wedding-ring  round  and 
round  on  her  finger,  was  smiling  a  little  at  Lydia's  per- 
turbation. Poor  old  Lydia !  She  was  quite  upset !  And 
after  all  it  was  a  trivial  matter.  Only  an  old  maid  like 
Lydia  would  make  much  of  it.  Of  course  Jack  was 
very  good-looking.  He  had  fascinating  eye-brows — so 
level  and  so  thick.  And  he  was  a  perfect  dear  as  well. 
No  wonder  this  girl — for  she  was  just  a  girl — had  been 
attracted — even  to  being  a  little  fool  about  him.  She 
could  pardon  her  for  that.  Let  them  speak.  Let  them 
say  what  they  liked.  Some  people,  of  course,  could 
never  bear  to  see  other  people  having  any  fun  with- 
out thinking  horrid  things.  But  she  knew — no  one  needed 
to  reassure  her  on  that  point — that  twenty  girls  could 
never  take  Jack  from  her.  And  since  she  was  sure  of 
that — quite  sure — it  was  ridiculous  to  waste  two  thoughts 
upon  the  subject. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  her,  as  she  sat  on  there  in  the  dusk 


46  WINTERGREEN 

more  than  two  thoughts  came,  and  more  and  more  added 
themselves  on  to  them,  just  as  on  water  troubled  at  its 
source  little  flakes  of  foam  will  appear  here,  there,  and 
everywhere.  And  the  strange  thing  was  that  she  found 
they  were  not  all  new  thoughts.  There  were  some  among 
them  which  she  had  had  before  and  which  now  bubbled 
up  with  the  others  from  hidden  depths. 

Could  this,  she  asked  herself,  this  worry  at  Alimara 
— for  it  must  have  been  a  worry  to  have  people  gossip- 
ing, however  silly  they  might  have  been — could  this 
which  had  happened  be  the  cause  of  the  slight  difference 
in  Jack,  in  his  expression,  in  his  manner,  which  she  had 
been  trying  not  to  notice  ever  since  he  came  back  from 
the  East?  She  had  been  trying  to  think  she  was  imagin- 
ing it,  the  want  of  the  indescribable  something  that  she 
missed,  the  absence  of  mind,  the  carelessness  over  trifles, 
the  slackness  at  times  which  had  taken  the  place  of  his 
old  eager  delight  in  his  work.  Poor  Jack !  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  this  had  been  weighing  on  his  mind  ?  That  the 
tattle  of  these  people  had  been  rankling  there?  That 
the  memory  of  it  had  been  between  them  all  these  weeks 
— the  fear  of  her  hearing  of  what  had  happened  and  being 
annoyed  by  it  perhaps?  Why  had  he  not  told  her  just 
at  once?  Then  they  could  have  laughed  over  it  together 
and  been  done  with  it.  Then  she  would  not  have  had  to 
be  dependent  upon  poor  old  Lydia  for  information.  Af- 
ter all,  it  was  horrid  to  have  been  told  by  her,  to  have 
a  secret  understanding  with  her,  however  slight,  which 
Jack  did  not  share.  It  was  like  a  barrier  unseen  yet  very 
miserable  between  them,  which  would  have  to  be  sur- 
mounted. 

And  now  before  this  could  be  done,  perhaps— Jack 
was  always  so  busy  now, — this  girl  was  coming,  this 


A  MYSTERY  AND  A  REVELATION         47 

girl  who  was  the  cause  of  everything — and  Lydia,  and 
Mrs.  Rutherford,  and  who  knew  how  many  more,  knew 
all  about  her  and  Jack. 

This  last  thought  suddenly  seemed  to  weigh  her  down 
and  to  bring  with  it  a  heavy  sensation  of  tiredness  and 
dispiritedness.  That  which  had  supported  her  and  kept 
her  buoyant  and  joyous  through  all  the  work  and  worry 
since  Jack  came  back,  through  the  aggravation  with  the 
wretched  Gardshore,  through  the  conflict  with  char- 
women, through  the  consciousness  of  her  own  incom- 
petence, seemed  all  at  once  to  give  way  a  little.  Winter- 
green's  letter  with  the  good  news  it  contained  and  which 
she  had  been  so  eager  to  show  her  visitor,  lay  on  the 
table  now  forgotten  and  neglected. 


CHAPTER  IV 

In  which  all  the  Members  of  a  Household  get  upon 
Each  O  tlur's  Nerves 

ALICE  was  still  sitting  in  the  dining-room  with  Win- 
tergreen's  letter  on  the  table  beside  her  when  the 
door  opened,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  the  evening 
of  his  arrival,  Gardshore  entered.  He  was  a  tall  man 
who  might  have  been  any  age  from  thirty  to  fifty.  His 
thin  clean-shaven  face  was  worn  and  lined.  His  mouth 
and  chin  had  the  set  look  of  one  who  has  experienced 
severe  suffering.  His  gray  eyes  were  mournful,  his  griz- 
zled hair  unkempt,  and  though  he  was  broad-shouldered 
and  strongly  made,  virtue  had  evidently  gone  out  of  him. 
The  gray  tweeds  which  once  had  fitted  him  were  now  a 
size  too  large.  He  wore  no  tie.  The  collar  of  his  shirt 
— gray  also — was  hanging  open.  Altogether,  as  he  came 
forward  into  the  room  and  stood  gazing  at  her  across 
the  table,  he  seemed  the  last  straw  to  Alice. 

"Oh,  bother !"  she  said  to  herself. 

But  aloud  she  said  briskly: 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Gardshore.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
downstairs.  I  was  afraid  you  were  not  feeling  so  well 
again.  Mrs.  Dick  told  me  you  did  not  want  lunch  to- 
day." 

A  faint  smile  glimmered  on  the  patient's  face. 

"So  she  told  me  too,"  he  said. 

48 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  49 

"What?"  exclaimed  Alice,  aghast.  "She  told  you? 
How  dared  she  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  meant  you 
did  n't  need  it  ?" 

"So  I  gathered,"  he  replied.  "But  please  don't  speak 
to  her  about  it,"  he  added  hastily.  "At  least  don't  do  it 
here.  I  would  so  much  rather  you  did  n't." 

"Very  well,  I  won't,"  said  Alice ;  "of  course  not." 

But  at  that  moment,  as  though  in  answer  to  some  tele- 
pathic communication,  Mrs.  Dick  entered.  She  was 
chiefly  remarkable  for  a  very  large  plain  face  and  very 
small  bleared  eyes.  Her  dirty  blue  wrapper  with  white 
spots  was  imperfectly  protected  by  a  torn  white  apron. 
She  entered  the  room  with  an  aggressive  air,  and  stood 
with  arms  akimbo  as  she  delivered  herself. 

"That's  a  message  from  Mrs.  Todd  of  Todd  Hall," 
she  said  in  a  voice  which  had  something  offensively  tri- 
umphant about  it.  "She  's  very  surprised  that  the  doc- 
tor has  not  been  back  since  Wednesday,  though  he  said 
he  'd  be  next  mornin',  and  she  '11  be  obliged  if  he  '11  come 
this  evenin'  without  fail,  for  that  last  bottle  he  gave  her 
has  made  her  ten  times  worse  than  she  ever  was." 

This  last  sentence,  needless  to  say,  was  an  invention 
of  Mrs.  Dick's,  or  rather  a  revised  version  of  the  original 
message.  That  had  been  cast  in  politer  mold.  But  Alice 
did  not  know  this.  She  only  recognized  that  here  was 
another  piece  of  evidence,  distinct,  public,  of  Jack's  new 
carelessness.  In  former  days  he  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  shooting  a  patient  as  of  making  an  appoint- 
ment and  forgetting  it.  The  side-thrust  as  to  the  effect 
of  his  medicine  seemed  a  small  thing  beside  this,  but  that 
the  whole  attack  upon  him — for  to  Alice  it  seemed  noth- 
ing less  than  an  attack — should  have  been  made  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Gardshore,  was  altogether  too  much. 


50  WINTERGREEN 

It  made  her  forget  everything  for  the  moment,  even  her 
promise  to  him. 

"Put  down  the  message  then,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Dick 
in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  anger.  "You  know  where 
the  slate  is.  And  don't  let  me  hear  of  you  refusing  to 
take  up  meals  to  Mr.  Gardshore  again.  What  did  you 
mean  by  saying  to  me  that  he  did  not  want  any  lunch?" 

Mr.  Gardshore  groaned,  and  sinking  into  the  nearest 
chair,  put  his  thin  hands  over  his  ears,  while  Mrs.  Dick 
took  two  steps  forward,  her  arms  more  akimbo  than  ever. 
With  her  large  face  very  red  and  her  little  eyes  very 
fierce  she  addressed  herself  to  Mr.  Gardshore  in  a  loud 
bullying  voice. 

"An*  so  ye  can  come  down  the  stair  when  ye  like," 
she  said,  "to  tell  tales  and  make  mischief  behind  folks's 
backs  ?  Ye  're  able  enough  for  that  ?  Yet  ye  '11  ring  yer 
bell  at  three  in  the  afternune  an'  order  yer  lunch  to  be 
brocht  up.  I  wonder  ye  're  no'  black  affrontit.  You, 
a  young  man,  sittin'  haund-idle  at  the  top  o'  the  hoose 
to  bring  a  woman  o'  my  years  that  never  devolves  frae 
workin'  nicht  nor  day,  trailin'  wi'  meals  for  ye  up  three 
pair  o'  stairs  that  would  tak'  the  legs  aff  a  horse  no  to 
speak  o'  a  human  bein'.  Oh,  ye  needna  cover  up  yer 
ears!  I  suppose  ye  think  that  because  ye  was  at  the 
war  a'body  's  to  serve  ye  noo  for  the  rest  o'  yer  life  on 
their  bendit*  knees  ?  But  I  '11  let  you  ken  that  ma  three 
nephews  an'  ma  brither-in-law  was  a'  in  the  war  as  weel 
as  you,  an'  what 's  mair  they  was  a'  killed.  Tach !  Think 
shame  o'  yoursel' !" 

As  the  violence  of  this  storm  broke  over  him  Mr.  Gard- 
shore only  closed  his  eyes  and  held  his  ears  more  tightly. 
Alice  at  first  stood  helpless  with  mortification.  When 
she  looked  at  him,  however,  the  aspect  of  the  patient  as 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  51 

he  sat  hunched  up  in  his  chair  brought  her  suddenly  to 
her  senses.  All  Jack's  injunctions  to  her  to  allow  no 
worry  or  unpleasantness  to  come  near  Gardshore  re- 
curred to  her  in  a  body  and  made  her  faint  with  appre- 
hension. They  also  nerved  her  to  counter-attack  at  once. 

"Mrs.  Dick,"  she  said  when  the  enemy  paused  for 
breath,  "you  can  take  notice  from  this  moment!" 

Mrs.  Dick  stood  amazed  as  one  before  whom  a  worm 
has  turned. 

"I  mean  it,"  said  Alice  grandly,  and  almost  enjoy- 
ing her  own  recklessness.  "You  may  stay  until  to-mor- 
row night,  when  I  have  another  housekeeper  coming. 
I  shall  give  you  a  week's  wages  then  in  lieu  of  further 
notice.  Go  now  and  write  down  your  message  from 
Mrs.  Todd." 

A  moment  after  Mrs.  Dick,  still  breathless  with  as- 
tonishment, had  left  the  room,  and  Alice  was  alone  with 
the  patient.  He  still  sat  with  his  face  hidden. 

"Mr.  Gardshore,"  she  said  anxiously,  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

At  the  touch  he  looked  up.  Then,  seeing  that  Mrs. 
Dick  had  left,  he  rose  without  speaking  and  made  straight 
for  the  door.  Before  Alice  had  realized  what  was  hap- 
pening he  was  half-way  up  the  stairs  again. 

"Oh,  please  don't  go  away,"  she  called  after  him. 
"I  '11  get  lunch — tea — anything  for  you.  Do  stay  at  least 
till  my  husband  comes  back !" 

At  this  appeal  the  fugitive  paused  for  a  moment  to  lean 
over  the  banisters  and  thank  her  for  her  offer.  Im- 
mediately he  had  3one  so,  however,  he  continued  his  flight 
and  disappeared  presently  into  the  upper  region  he  had 
so  lately  left. 

Only  then  it  was  that  Alice  realized  to  its  full  extent 


52  WINTERGREEN 

the  enormity  of  her  offense.  By  her  fault,  she  reflected 
with  dismay,  Gardshore  had  probably  had  a  serious  re- 
lapse. He  had  come  down  that  day  for  the  first  time 
of  his  own  accord.  Now  for  all  she  knew  he  might  never 
do  so  again.  He  might  refuse  to  stay.  He  might  insist 
upon  shaking  the  dust  of  the  Bow  House  from  his  feet. 
By  her  untimely  action  she  had  probably  lost  Jack  this 
patient  upon  whom  so  much  depended. 

The  thought  drove  her  frantic.  She  hastened  upstairs 
in  pursuit.  But  it  was  all  to  no  purpose.  Gardshore's 
door  was  shut  and  locked,  and  though  she  knocked  again 
and  again  at  it  there  was  no  answer. 

"No,  I  have  had  enough,"  Gardshore  was  saying  to 
himself. 

He  had  flung  himself  on  his  sofa  in  an  access  of  irri- 
tation. 

"I  'm  actually  blubbering,"  he  added  after  a  moment 
"Was  there  ever  such  an  abject  wretch  as  I  am?" 

But  presently  he  rose  and  went  over  to  a  writing- 
table -which  stood  in  a  good  light  near  the  window.  Then 
seizing  the  nearest  pen  he  began  to  write. 

"Dear  Professor,"  he  wrote.  "You  must  be  wonder- 
ing why  you  have  had  no  letter  from  me.  I  did  mean 
to  keep  my  promise,  but  I  have  put  off  doing  so  as  long 
as  possible  since  I  could  not  write  without  explaining 
and  apologizing  and  being  altogether  boring.  But  now 
or  never  it  must  be  done,  and  as  you  asked  me  as  a  favor, 
as  a  contribution  perhaps  to  science,  to  write  a  diary 
for  you,  I  mean,  at  least,  to  try.  You  want  to  know 
exactly  how  I  feel  here  at  Cauldstanes,  and  as  there  is 
nothing  I  would  not  do  for  you  who  have  done  or  tried 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  53 

to  do  so  much  for  me,  I  will  do  this  also.  You  shall 
have  for  what  they  are  worth  my  thoughts  to-night  just 
as  they  come. 

"You  want  to  know,  you  say,  how  I  am  getting  on. 
I  am  not  getting  on  at  all.  Does  a  jelly-fish  get  on  when 
it  has  been  left  stranded  on  the  beach?  I  have  been 
stranded  without  hope  or  prospect  in  this  world  or  the 
next.  And  I  detest  my  beach. 

"This  old  house  itself  is  attractive  with  a  certain 
gloomy  attractiveness.  From  outside  it  reminds  one 
of  those  old  houses  that  Balzac  or  Dickens  describes. 
But  inside,  alas!  modernity  has  set  its  mark  on  it,  and 
modernity  of  a  mediocre  kind.  It  is  over-upholstered. 
It  is  smug.  There  are  carpets  everywhere.  There  is 
linoleum.  There  are  dadoes.  There  are  friezes.  I  leave 
you  to  imagine  what  they  are  like.  And  over  all  is 
spread  a  sickening  veneer  of  artisticness.  You  know 
the  kind  of  thing.  Pale  colors,  timid  shades,  juxtaposed 
in  a  way  that  was  once  original.  Frank  hideousness 
would  be  refreshing  here  amid  all  this  washy  prettiness. 
Pardon  me  this  outburst.  It  is  my  first,  and  will  be 
my  last. 

"There  are  other  things.  The  clocks  are  all  wrong. 
There  are  half  a  dozen,  at  least,  that  strike,  and  they  all 
strike  at  different  times.  This  may  seem  nothing  much, 
but  I  assure  you  that  at  night  it  simply  drives  you  all 
but  demented.  Most  of  them  strike  the  quarters  too,  and 
one  does  it  in  chimes  like  a  cathedral  bell.  Another  seems 
to  have  gone  mad  and  strikes  molto  prestissimo  agitato. 

"During  the  day,  in  addition  to  this,  there  is  an  almost 
continuous  sound  in  some  part  or  another  of  the  house 
of  voices  raised  in  controversy,  and  between  times  Mrs. 
Dick,  the  charwoman,  soliloquizes.  There  are  also  at 


54  WINTERGREEN 

intervals  whispered  dialogues  on  the  landing  beneath, 
between  my  hostess  and  a  confidential  friend.  Add  to 
all  this  a  strong  smell  of  burning  cookery  which  ascends 
in  waves  from  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  and  even 
enters  at  my  open  window,  and  you  will  have  some  faint 
notion  of  what  I  have  endured  for  your  sake.  Had  it  not 
been  for  you  and  for  Adair  himself,  who  is  a  trump  in 
every  way  and  worthy  of  a  better  patient,  I  could  not 
have  stuck  it  out  for  six  days,  much  less  six  weeks.  Not 
that  I  want  to  run  down  the  little  mistress  of  the  place. 
She  is  a  pretty  dear,  and  means  desperately  well.  Had 
she  not  been  so  anxious  to  treat  me  with  that  cheerful- 
ness I  detest  we  might  have  got  on  better.  But  cheer- 
fulness, professor,  since  I  came  here  has  been  the  bane 
of  my  existence.  I  assure  you  that  the  charwoman,  Mrs. 
Dick,  who  has  just  been  anathematizing  me  to  my  face  in 
no  measured  terms,  is  the  one  who  has  done  me  most 
good.  She  has  galvanized  me  into  being  human  again, 
after  being  for  years  a  case.  I  have  wept  with  rage  and 
humiliation,  and  I  feel  the  better  for  it. 

"I  realize  now,  however,  that  coming  here  was  a  mis- 
take. I  came  because  I  thought  that  perhaps  after  all 
you  might  be  right,  that  the  trouble  which  had  weighed 
me  down  for  four  years  and  made  me  go  rejoicing  up  to 
every  post  of  danger,  was  imaginary — a  dream,  a  night- 
mare that  would  vanish  in  an  entirely  new  environment. 

"But  it  is  all  no  use.  The  trouble  is  within  me  and 
no  environment  can  reach  it.  On  the  contrary  it  reaches 
the  environment.  Do  not  believe  the  half  of  what  I 
have  said  about  the  Bow  House.  I  see  it  all  distorted, 
like  a  futurist  or  a  vorticist.  But  it  reaches  farther  than 
the  Bow  House.  It  reaches  all  my  old  beliefs  and  plays 
the  very  devil  with  them.  There  is  no  God  now  in  my 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  55 

universe,  only  a  huge  Order  of  Beings  as  far  removed 
from  us  as  we  are  from  the  tiny  insects  that  creep  at  the 
roots  of  the  grass  we  walk  on.  Every  day  we  see  beauti- 
ful things,  material  and  immaterial,  ruthlessly  destroyed. 
How  else  can  we  account  for  it? 

"Do  men  as  a  rule  consider  the  lower  animals?  Why 
then  should  those  overlords  of  ours  consider  us?  Ex- 
quisite things  bloom  and  die  every  day  where  no  human 
eye  can  see  them.  The  world  is  not  made  for  us  as  we 
were  taught  to  believe.  No.  We  are  but  a  part  of  it, 
made  to  bloom  and  die  with  it,  and  what  we  call  love  is 
only  a  part  of  it  too.  Browning  may  talk  of  other 
heights  in  other  worlds.  It  was  easy  for  him  who  had 
not  had  to  wait  for  those  other  heights.  My  opinion  is 
that  if  one  has  missed  one's  chance  here  one  has  missed 
it  for  good  and  all.  And  I  have  missed  mine,  sir,  and 
realized  it.  That 's  what 's  the  matter  with  me. 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you  this  before.  You  have  been 
very  good  to  me,  and  it  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  un- 
grateful not  to  let  you  know  that  I  was  no  case  for  psy- 
chotherapy. But  I  had  not  made  up  my  mind  then  what 
to  do.  Now,  however,  I  cannot  but  let  you  know.  My 
mainspring  was  broken.  I  was  incurable  when  I  came 
to  you.  Four  years  ago  a  girl  had  become  simply  every- 
thing to  me,  and  she  had  left  me,  had  never  loved  me, 
had  been  engaged  all  the  time  to  another  man. 

"That 's  all.  There  is  absolutely  nothing  else  the  mat- 
ter with  me.  A  dozen  wounds  in  the  head  would  not 
have  affected  me  if  she  had  loved  me.  Bah.  For  the 
certainty  that  she  cared,  I  would  gladly  have  died  in 
agony.  It  is  the  awful  blank.  Remember  she  had  be- 
come everything  to  me.  But  it  was  not  her  fault.  How 
could  she  help  it?  The  Powers — those  Great  Ones  who 


56  WINTERGREEN 

care  nothing — had  made  her  lovely  and  very  lovable. 
Hundreds  of  men  must  have  wanted  to  be  engaged  to  her. 
I  had  no  business  to  be  angry  because  she  was  engaged. 
I  should  have  railed  at  the  Powers — not  at  her.  But 
I  was  mad  that  night  she  told  me.  I  spoke  like  a  mad- 
man to  her.  I  went  like  a  madman  out  of  her  life.  She 
must  think  of  me  as  one  now,  if  she  has  not  forgotten 
me.  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  a  word  of  her  since. 
But  I  cannot  get  over  it. 

"Nothing  matters.  I  have  nothing  to  work  for  or 
to  live  for  on  this  earth.  I  am  no  use  for  anything;  not 
even  as  a  subject  for  new  cures.  It  is  this  last  which 
has  quite  decided  me.  Adair  is  the  last  consideration 
which  during  the  past  weeks  has  held  me  back.  He  says 
it 's  all  my  liver,  and  is  trying  a  course  of  alteratives  on 
me,  and  I  wanted  to  give  him  a  chance !  But  six  months 
ago  I  had  decided  to  go  out,  and  now  I  can  hesitate  no 
longer.  I  can't  deceive  you  or  Adair  any  more.  I  can't 
allow  you  to  waste  any  more  of  your  time  on  me — cheer- 
ing me  up.  O  Lord,  it 's  not  cheering  up  I  want — it's 
— oh,  I  don't  know  what.  I  suppose  it 's  just  Jimmy. 

"There  it  is.  That 's  her  name.  I  thrill  to  the  finger- 
tips as  I  write  it.  After  all  it  has  been  something  to 
have  loved,  however  unhappily.  It  has  been  a  great,  a 
wonderful  experience.  All  the  lovers  of  history  have 
been  one's  intimates.  The  earth  itself  has  been  transfig- 
ured— revealed.  So  much  for  love. 

"But  now,  as  I  dare  say  you  have  already  guessed, 
since  I  am  telling  you  all  this,  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  die,  and  my  one  fear  is  that  you  may  think  this  deci- 
sion the  result  of  insanity.  It  is  not.  It  is  transcendent 
sanity.  It  will  do  more  to  help  Adair  than  anything.  I 
am  alone  in  the  world  and  fairly  rich.  I  shall  leave  a 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  57 

will  which  will  make  him  a  man  of  means,  and  enable  him 
to  get  once  more  into  the  thick  of  things,  where  he  has 
longed  to  be  ever  since  he  came  back  from  India.  As  for 
the  manner  of  my  dying.  No  one  but  yourself  will  ever 
know  that  I  have  brought  it  about.  I  can  be  sure  of 
this.  I  have  seen  a  man  die  as  I  am  going  to  die,  and 
three  doctors  over  his  post-mortem  agreed  that  it  was 
from  natural  causes.  A  Russian,  his  friend,  told  me  the 
real  cause  and  as  a  favor  gave  me  enough  of  the  powder 
for  my  own  exit.  At  that  time  I  thought  I  would  never 
need  it,  that  I  would  finish  decently.  We  were  before 
Arras  at  the  time.  But  the  Powers  trampled  on  that 
too.  In  spite  of  everything  I  lived. 

"But  this  time  there  will  be  no  mistake.  When  you 
get  this  I  shall  be  dead,  not  of  heart- failure  as  they  will 
suppose,  but  of  my  Russian  powder  which  I  shall  have 
taken  in  coffee.  Drinking  the  concoction  which  Mrs. 
Dick  calls  by  that  name  will  be  the  worst  part  of  the  per- 
formance. That  over,  all  will  be  plain  sailing.  I  shall  sit 
down  in  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  presently,  without  effort 
to  myself  or  annoyance  to  onlookers,  expire. 

"It  is  strange  the  relief  I  feel  at  the  near  approach  of 
death.  I  feel  more  like  my  old  self  at  this  moment  than 
I  have  done  for  years.  I  am  gay — flippant — irrespon- 
sible. I  exult  in  the  thought  that  though  no  one  in  the 
house  knows  it,  I  have  virtually  done  with  life.  Death  is 
the  king  of  psychotherapeutists.  Once  he  is  near,  all 
ills  of  body  and  of  mind  disappear.  I,  who  have  not  been 
able  to  think  or  arrange  anything  for  many  a  day,  am 
now  thinking  clearly,  arranging  calmly.  I  know  that  I 
must  not  go  until  I  have  made  Adair  quite  certain  that  I 
am  none  the  worse  for  my  encounter  with  his  women- 
folk this  afternoon.  Otherwise  he  would  think  I  had 


58  WINTERGREEN 

died  because  of  them  and  their  failure  to  be  cheerful  to 
me.  This  would  not  only  be  misleading  to  him,  but 
it  would  be  the  last  humiliation  for  me.  I  shall  have 
enough  to  do  in  setting  my  affairs  in  order  to  keep  me 
employed  for  another  twenty-four  hours.  I  shall  wait 
therefore  till  to-morrow  night,  and  in  the  company  of  my 
New  Physician  revel  in  all  the  strange  and  wonderful 
sensations  with  which  he  has  provided  me.  All  the  time 
I  shall  be  saying  to  myself,  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall 
see  the  moon,  the  last  time  I  shall  see  the  dawn.'  I  shall 
enjoy  the  night  before  my  death. 

"Good-by,  dear  friend.  You  would  have  helped  me  if 
any  one  could. 

"Yours  very  gratefully  and  affectionately,  till  to-mor- 
row night,  when  I  shall  be  no  more. 

"ARTHUR  GARDSHORE." 

While  this  letter  was  a-writing  Alice  had  been  having 
a  bad  time.  She  had  spent  it  mostly  on  the  landing  out- 
side Gardshore's  closed  door.  Awful  visions  of  what 
might  be  happening  behind  it  had  assailed  her  there  in 
the  dusk.  Often  she  had  pressed  her  ear  to  the  keyhole, 
but  the  key  was  in  it  and  no  sound  came  from  beyond. 
At  last,  however,  to  her  great  relief  she  heard  Jack's 
latchkey  in  the  front  door,  and  a  moment  later  Jack  him- 
self, humming  a  cheerful  tune,  came  into  the  hall  below. 
At  once  she  ran  down  the  upper  flight  of  steps  in  order 
to  get  within  easy  speaking  distance.  As  she  did  so  Jack 
suddenly  stopped  humming,  and  looking  over  the  ban- 
isters to  ascertain  the  cause  of  this  she  saw  him  standing 
beside  the  table  in  the  hall  where  his  letters  lay. 

He  had  already  torn  one  open  and  was  reading  it.  But 
when  he  heard  her  footsteps  he  looked  up. 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  59 

"Well,  dear?"  he  said,  thrusting  the  letter  he  had 
opened  into  his  pocket. 

"O  Jack!"  she  said  eagerly,  though  in  a  subdued 
voice,  "I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  in.  I — I  think  Mr. 
Gardshore  's  worse." 

"Gardshore  worse?"  exclaimed  Jack,  springing  up  the 
stairs  two  steps  at  a  time  till  he  stood  beside  her  on  the 
landing.  "How  do  you  know?  What  do  you  mean?" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  feeling  for  the  first  time  since 
she  had  known  him  that  he  could  be  rather  formidable. 
His  handsome  boyish  face  was  grave. 

"How  do  you  mean  worse,  dear?"  he  said  once  more. 

Then  she  told  him,  and  as  she  recounted  the  details  of 
what  had  happened  in  the  dining-room  his  brow  dark- 
ened. 

"Well  upon  my  word,  Alice,"  he  said,  "I  am  surprised 
at  you.  You  know  what  Mrs.  Dick  is.  Why  did  you  al- 
low such  a  thing  to  happen?" 

This  was  the  very  question  Alice  had  been  asking  her- 
self for  the  last  hour.  The  reason,  of  course,  was  the 
visit  of  Lydia  and  the  resulting  perturbation  in  which  all 
thought  had  been  lost  except  the  one  thought.  But  this, 
she  realized,  was  no  excuse,  nor  could  it  be  explained  to 
Jack  at  this  moment.  With  the  thought  of  it,  however, 
the  former  bitterness  returned.  She  was  annoyed  with 
Jack  for  casting  the  whole  blame  upon  her.  It  made  her 
wish  to  justify  herself. 

"And  why,"  she  said  with  vehemence,  though  obliged 
to  speak  in  a  whisper,  "did  you  not  go  to  see  Mrs.  Todd 
of  Todd  Hall?  The  reason  Mrs.  Dick  came  into  the 
dining-room  at  all  when  Mr.  Gardshore  was  there  was 
because  she  had  a  message  to  deliver.  You  had  promised 
to  go  back  next  day,  and  you  did  n't  go,  and  the  medicine 


60  WINTERGREEN 

you  gave  her  made  her  ten  times  worse,  she  says,  than 
she  ever  was." 

The  manner  more  than  the  matter  of  her  speech  aston- 
ished him.  Was  this  Alice?  Kind,  encouraging  little 
Alice?  What  had  come  to  her?  But,  of  course,  it  was 
just  Gardshore.  Poor  little  Alice!  Yet  it  was  rather 
irritating  that  she  should  attack  him  like  this  just  now. 

"Did  she  really  say  that  ?"  he  said  lightly,  nevertheless, 
with  the  manner  of  one  who  soothes  and  humors  an  ex- 
cited child.  "Well,  I  '11  go  afterwards  to  Todd  Hall,  but 
now  I  '11  just  run  up  and  see  Gardshore.  You  go  down 
again  to  the  dining-room  and  wait." 

In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  joined  her. 

"Don't  worry  any  more,"  he  said  in  his  former  man- 
ner. "Gardshore  is  quite  all  right.  I  'm  to  bring  up  his 
supper  when  I  come  in.  All  he  wants  in  the  meantime 
is  to  be  undisturbed." 

"Oh,  /  sha'n't  disturb  him,"  said  Alice,  piqued  both  at 
being  humored  and  at  Gardshore's  message.  "He  takes 
care  of  that.  He  took  no  notice  when  7  knocked." 

"My  dear,  I  don't  wonder  after  what  you  did,"  said 
Jack. 

And  leaving  this  to  sink  in,  he  went  on  to  Mrs.  Todd. 

From  there  he  had  go  on  to  other  places.  Till  supper- 
time  he  did  not  return,  and  after  supper  and  his  last 
visit  for  the  night  to  Gardshore,  he  went  out  again.  Alice 
was  left  once  more  in  the  dining-room  alone  with  her 
cogitations  and  the  uneasy  consciousness  of  the  ill-will 
of  her  two  house  companions  as  well. 

However  much  we  dislike  and  despise  people  it  is  al- 
ways distressing  to  know  of  their  aversion  and  contempt. 
The  thought  of  Gardshore  upstairs  and  Mrs.  Dick  down- 
stairs became,  as  the  evening  went  on,  more  and  more 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  61 

oppressive.  Gardshore's  feelings,  it  is  true,  were  only 
expressed  by  a  grim  silence.  But  Mrs.  Dick  had  begun 
a  farewell  demonstration.  She  had  announced  at  supper- 
time  that  she  had  had  no  time  to  make  any  preparation 
for  that  meal  because,  since  she  had  to  leave  next  day, 
it  behooved  her  to  thorough-clean  the  kitchen.  Alice 
therefore  had  had  to  do  what  was  necessary  herself,  and 
if  Jack  had  not  been  an  hour  late  she  would  not  have 
managed  it.  As  it  was,  the  results  she  had  obtained  had 
been,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  unsatisfactory,  and  she  was 
virtually  certain  that  Mrs.  Dick  had  found  time  to  tamper 
with  them.  Worst  of  all,  Jack  had  noticed  nothing 
wrong,  though  he  was  generally  rather  particular  about 
his  food.  His  new  absence  of  mind  had  never  been  so 
noticeable.  He  had  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  other  things 
all  the  time.  Throughout  the  meal,  also,  Alice  had  had 
the  desperate  feeling  that  a  barrier  of  reticence  was 
growing  fast  between  them.  When  he  said  good-by  be- 
fore going  off  again  in  the  motor  she  almost  begged  him 
to  take  her  with  him.  But  realizing  that  to  leave  the 
other  two  inhabitants  of  the  house  alone  together  was 
impossible,  she  restrained  herself  and  said  nothing,  for 
which  due  credit  must  be  given  her. 

At  the  same  time  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  becoming 
more  and  more  imperative  that  she  and  Jack  should  come 
to  some  clear  understanding  on  the  subject  of  Lydia's 
news.  And  she  sat  brooding  over  the  thought  that  within 
twenty- four  hours  this  girl  of  whom  Lydia  had  spoken 
would  actually  have  arrived  at  Longshaws. 

If  Jack  would  only  speak!    Did  he  know  of  it? 

No.  That  was  impossible.  He  had  never  kept  any- 
thing from  her. 

All  the  same,  as  she  told  herself,  gazing  into  the  fire 


62  WINTERGREEN 

and  seeing  the  light  of  other  days  in  it,  he  had  been  dif- 
ferent ever  since  he  came  back  from  Alimara.  Love,  far 
from  being  blind,  is  abnormally  clear-sighted.  She  real- 
ized now  that  from  the  first  she  had  recognized  that 
this  Jack  who  had  come  back  to  her  from  the  East  was 
a  new  Jack.  She  believed,  however,  that  he  himself  was 
not  aware  of  any  change  or  cause  of  change.  He  had 
never  kept  anything  from  her.  Again  she  reassured  her- 
self. He  had  never  kept  anything  from  her.  These 
people  were  all  liars  and  fools  who  said  he  had.  Yet 
somehow  it  was  just  then  that  she  remembered  the  little 
incident  of  that  afternoon  which  she  had  hardly  noticed 
at  the  time.  Jack  had  been  reading  a  letter  in  the  hall 
when  she  spoke  to  him  about  Gardshore,  which  he  had 
stuffed  into  his  pocket.  Why  had  he  done  this?  Had 
it  been  only  because  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her  ?  Or  had 
he  done  it  because  he  was  afraid  of  her  seeing  it?  Now 
that  she  thought  of  it,  he  had  looked  for  a  moment  rather 
strange.  She  thrust  the  thought  from  her,  but  it  returned 
again  and  again. 

At  last,  unable  to  sit  there  any  longer,  she  turned  down 
the  light  and  went  upstairs.  Not  to  rest,  however.  The 
strong  desire  was  upon  her  to  find  out  all  that  was  pos- 
sible about  this  woman  who  was  coming  into  her  life, 
or — dreadful  thought — had  already  come.  Yet  to  no  out- 
sider could  she  go  for  that  knowledge.  To  no  one  could 
she  go  now  except  to  Jack  himself. 

Every  letter  he  had  ever  written  to  her  was  in  her 
bureau  upstairs. 

As  soon  as  she  reached  her  room  she  unlocked  the 
drawer  -where  they  were,  and  took  out  the  special  packet 
of  those  from  Alimara.  Then  sitting  down  at  her  dress- 
ing-table, with  no  witness  to  her  deeds  but  her  own  woe- 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  63 

begone  reflection  in  the  mirror,  she  began  to  search  for 
references. 

She  found  in  all  only  about  half  a  dozen.  Surely,  she 
reflected,  this  was  strange,  though  before  she  had  not 
noticed  the  omission. 

If  Jack  had  been  there  he  could  have  replied  that  she 
had  never  wanted  this  information,  that  she  had  said 
indeed  that  she  was  tired  of  hearing  about  parties  and 
balls  and  would  rather  hear  about  the  hospital.  But  she 
had  forgotten  this  and  the  bad  temper  she  had  been  in 
when  she  wrote  it.  She  was  unconscious  therefore,  like 
many  another  before  and  since,  that  her  grievance  was  a 
retribution. 

On  the  whole  it  was  perhaps  as  well  that  the  notices 
of  Miss  Carmyle  were  limited  in  number.  They  made 
up  in  enthusiasm,  for  lack  of  words,  and  conjured  up  a 
glowing  enough  picture  in  their  reader's  unwilling  mind. 
Miss  Carmyle,  it  seemed,  was  absolutely  charming.  Her 
hair  and  eyes  were  the  color  of  autumn  beech-leaves, 
with  the  sun  shining  through  them  on  a  frosty  morning. 
She  was  the  best  of  company,  a  splendid  rider  and  tennis- 
player,  a  ripping  dancer.  It  had  been  amusing  to  see  her 
act  the  part  of  hostess  at  her  uncle's  parties.  She  had 
looked  such  a  child  beside  the  stately  old  commissioner. 
Yet  she  had  made  a  topping  hostess.  Her  name  was  Je- 
mima, but  she  was  always  called  Jimmy,  and  the  name 
just  suited  her.  She  was  engaged  to  Dawson,  the  deputy 
commissioner — a  pompous,  red-faced  chap.  The  wed- 
ding was  to  be  shortly. 

Alice  had  come  to  no  mention  of  the  breaking  off  of 
the  engagement  before  she  had  to  thrust  the  letters  into 
the  nearest  drawer,  and  fling  a  pink  dressing-gown  around 
her  and  let  down  her  hair,  and  hastily  begin  brushing  it, 


64  WINTERGREEN 

because  she  heard  Jack  approaching.  She  had  been  too 
absorbed  to  hear  him  before,  though  it  had  been  some 
time  since  he  had  entered  the  house  and  had  been  sitting 
alone  by  the  dying  fire  in  the  dining-room  deep  in  medi- 
tations and  reflections. 

These  last  were  not  all  pleasant.  The  memory  of 
Alice's  little  attack  upon  him  that  afternoon  had  left  a 
certain  soreness  and  sense  of  aloofness  behind  it.  It  had 
been  something  new  and  strange  in  his  experience  of 
her,  his  loyal  comrade  hitherto  in  all  his  ups  and  downs. 
The  worry  and  strain  of  things  in  general  were  to  blame 
for  this,  he  supposed.  He  was  feeling  rotten  himself 
that  night.  Since  early  morning  he  had  hardly  had  time 
to  call  his  soul  his  own.  He  had  not  realized  before  he 
went  to  India  how  exacting  private  practice  was.  In  the 
hospital  there,  you  could  relieve  each  other.  You  could 
have  some  time  to  yourself  between.  Here  you  were 
never  done.  You  went  out  to  worry;  you  came  in  to 
worry.  Even  now  outside  on  the  slate  there  was  a  mes- 
sage waiting  for  him  which  would  mean  being  away  all 
night.  An  urgent  message,  too.  Well,  they  must  just 
wait.  He  must  have  a  pipe — one  pipe  at  least — in  peace 
before  he  set  out  again.  Besides,  he  must  read  Jimmy 
Carmyle's  letter.  He  had  had  no  time  before.  He  had 
only  seen  the  first  line. 

He  took  it  out  of  his  pocket,  and  all  at  once  the  sense 
of  strain  seemed  to  relax  just  as  it  had  always  done  in 
the  presence  of  Jimmy  herself.  The  queer  delightful 
feeling  of  irresponsibility  came  over  him,  which  had  al- 
ways accompanied  her  at  Alimara.  He  pictured  her  in 
her  topi  with  the  green  lining,  and  her  clinging  white 
garments,  laughing  at  him  in  her  uncle's  veranda,  and  he 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  65 

smiled  a  little  as  he  opened  the  letter  again,  setting  him- 
self comfortably  in  his  chair  as  he  did  so. 

Alimara. 

May,  1919. 

Dear  Mister  Wu :  Was  n't  that  the  last  name  I  called  you  ? 
Many  thanks  for  the  p.c.  from  Port  Said,  and  also  for  your 
note  from  Cauldstanes.  I  found  them  here  when  we  came  back 
from  camp.  Mrs.  Crowley  had  not  forwarded  them  to  me — on 
purpose,  I  believe. 

If  you  miss  me  and  my  fooleries  I  miss  you,  too,  more  than 
I  can  say.  You  were  always  such  a  brick  to  me,  even  when  I 
was  a  beast  to  you,  and  I  am  sure  you  would  still  be  the  same  now 
though  every  one  else  in  Alimara  is  against  me.  Yes,  they  're 
all  against  me  because  I  would  n't  marry  Mr.  Dawson  after  all. 
I  made  up  my  mind  finally  about  it  two  days  before  the  wedding. 
It  was  the  very  day  your  letter  came.  Even  uncle  is  annoyed, 
though  I  know  from  the  way  he  looks  at  him  that  he  does  n't 
like  Dawson  much.  But  he 's  terribly  good  and  clever  and  all 
that.  Even  /  am  sorry  for  him.  Well,  he  's  gone  away  now, 
poor  devil. 

Uncle  has  had  to  go  too,  to  Calcutta  on  business,  and  I  am 
staying  with  the  Crowleys  at  present.  You  may  imagine  how 
I  am  enjoying  myself.  She  and  I  have  always  detested  each 
other,  and  if  it  were  not  for  Mr.  Crowley,  who  is  always  delight- 
ful to  me,  I  would  n't  stay  another  minute.  It  is  roasting  hot 
now,  and  this  is  n't  half  such  a  nice  bungalow  as  uncle's  is,  of 
course.  I  hate  nearly  every  one  in  Alimara,  and  altogether  I 
am  fed  up. 

And  what  I  am  writing  now  to  tell  you  is  that  I  can't  bear  it 
here  any  longer,  and  that  I  am  starting  for  Scotland  in  the  wake 
of  this  letter.  It  is  so  hot  here  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  and 
your  letter  had  something  so  nice  and  cool  about  it.  It  was  just 
like  yourself,  who  were  always  so  nice  and  cool;  the  one  man 
in  Alimara  one  could  really  be  friends  with.  It  made  me  feel 
your  Scotch  breezes  and  hear  the  sound  of  your  gray  sea,  and 
want  to  start  off  at  once  from  this  impossible  Gehenna. 

All  my  relations  are  down  on  me  too,  I  suppose;  but  a  trustee 
of  mine,  whom  I  don't  know,  once  gave  me  a  standing  invitation 
to  come  and  visit  him  and  his  wife — the  Rutherfords  of  Long- 
shaws — in  Eastshire,  and  I  have  written  to  tell  them  I  am  coming. 
I  remember  your  saying  that  you  knew  them  and  that  you  lived 
quite  near.  Oh,  I  do  hope  you  do  still !  For  you  do  owe  me  a 
good  time,  you  know !  Remember  Alimara  and  the  fun  I  gave 
you !  I — I — for  uncle  would  n't  have  bothered  much  to  enter- 
tain you  if  I  had  n't  egged  him  on,  though  aftenvards,  of  course, 
he  was  delighted  with  you.  Yes,  think  of  the  dances  I  stole 


66  WINTERGREEN 

from  hundreds  of  other  people  far  nicer  than  you  to  give  to 
you !  And  the  horses  I  wangled  for  you !  And  the  concerts  I 
arranged  for  your  hospital!  And  the  jolly  people  I  introduced 
you  to,  and  the  Christmas  camps,  and  all  the  ripping  times  we 
had  out  shooting,  and  rise  to  the  occasion  when  I  come. 
Do ;  there 's  a  dear  now  ! 

JIMMY. 

Jack's  face  during  the  reading  of  this  was  a  study  in 
shades  of  expression.  By  the  time  he  came  to  the  end  of 
it  the  smile  with  which  he  had  begun  it  had  disappeared. 

"By  Jove !"  he  said  softly,  and  then  again,  "By  Jove !' 

Then  letting  his  pipe  go  out  he  sat  gazing  at  Jimmy's 
signature  as  though  he  were  half  scared  by  it. 

And  indeed  he  was.  The  thought  of  Jimmy  actually 
in  Cauldstanes  was  electrifying.  He  could  not  imagine 
her  there.  The  idea  disturbed  and  moved  him  strangely. 
She  would  be,  it  seemed  to  him,  so  wildly  out  of  place 
there;  she,  whose  whole  life  had  been  all  leisure  and 
pleasure.  He  disliked  also  the  thought  of  her  seeing  him 
at  his  present  work,  so  different  from  that  which  he  had 
been  doing  when  he  had  known  her.  General  practice  at 
Cauldstanes  seemed  sordid  at  the  moment,  with  no  dig- 
nity or  romance  behind  it.  The  whole  episode  of  their 
friendship  in  India  had  been  so  pleasant  to  look  back 
upon,  he  would  have  wished  to  preserve  it  intact.  Why 
was  she  coming  now  to  spoil  the  memory  of  it? 

The  answer  to  this  question  raised  another  point. 

Why  had  she  broken  off  her  engagement?  She  had 
had  no  intention  of  doing  so  apparently  until  two  days 
before  the  wedding — the  very  day  she  had  received  his 
letter.  Then  she  had  done  it,  had  thrown  over  a  wealthy 
important  man,  against  the  whole  opinion  of  Alimara, 
against  the  opinion  of  all  her  relations,  against  the  desire 
of  her  beloved  uncle  whose  lightest  wish  had  hitherto 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  67 

been  law  to  her.  And  she  had  done  it,  she  had  expressly 
said,  on  the  very  day  she  had  received  his  letter. 

"Confound  it,"  he  said  to  himself.  "What  did  I  say 
in  that  letter?" 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair  then,  with  closed  eyes,  trying 
to  remember  what  he  had  written.  But  for  the  life  of 
him  he  could  recall  nothing  relevant  to  the  breaking  of 
engagements.  It  had  been  written,  he  remembered,  in 
the  consulting-room  one  day  when  the  thought  of  Ali- 
mara  had  been  more  than  usually  insistent,  one  cold  gray 
afternoon  when  all  Cauldstanes  looked  as  though  it  had 
just  risen  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  when  by  rea- 
son of  squalid  little  troubles  here,  there,  and  everywhere 
within  its  precincts  he  had  come  to  wish  passionately  that 
it  could  be  re-submerged.  He  had  allowed  some  of  this 
feeling  to  pass  into  his  letter  perhaps.  He  had  given 
expression  to  his  longing  for  the  East,  rather  more,  per- 
haps, than  he  had  intended  or  really  felt.  He  had  de- 
scribed Gardshore  in  his  top  flat  and  Mrs.  Dick  in  the 
kitchen,  and  had  called  them  the  upper  and  the  nether 
millstones.  Yet  what  in  the  world  could  there  have  been 
in  all  this  to  cause  Jimmy  to  break  off  her  engagement 

with  the  unhappy  Dawson,  unless But  here  Jack 

sat  up  suddenly.  A  new  and  startling  idea  had  occurred 
to  him. 

Surely  he  was  not  to  blame  for  this.  For  a  very  good- 
looking  man  of  thirty  he  was  by  no  means  conceited. 
Yet,  like  other  folks,  he  had  had  his  experiences,  and 
was  perfectly  aware  that  Alice  was  not  the  only  woman 
he  had  attracted.  Can  he  be  blamed  either  for  enter- 
taining the  idea  for  five  minutes  or  so,  and  savoring  its 
mystery  and  its  romance? 


68  WINTERGREEN 

At  the  end  of  that  time,  however,  with  scorn  and  per- 
haps a  little  regret,  he  rejected  it.  Jimmy  in  love  with 
him?  Never.  She  would  laugh  at  the  very  thought  of 
it.  Some  day  he  would  tell  her  of  it  and  they  would 
laugh  together.  Then,  returning  to  realities,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  in  the  meantime  he  had  better  tell  Alice  that 
Jimmy  was  coming,  and  only  then  he  realized  that  be- 
tween Alice's  knowledge  of  Jimmy  and  his  own  there 
was  a  great  gulf  fixed. 

To  him  Jimmy  meant  Alimara  and  all  that  it  had  stood 
for  in  his  life.  She  meant  the  renewal  of  vivid  mem- 
ories. Alice,  on  the  other  hand,  had  hardly  heard  of  her. 
He  had  not  had  much  time  to  write  at  Alimara,  and  since 
he  had  come  home  he  had  been  too  much  occupied  either 
to  think  of  Jimmy,  or  to  speak  of  her.  Therefore  to 
Alice  the  announcement  of  her  coming,  at  this  juncture 
of  crisis  in  the  household,  would  merely  suggest  calls  and 
difficult  parties  and  painful  repayment  of  hospitalities. 
Somehow  the  thought  of  telling  her  the  news  seemed  to 
take  the  flavor  out  of  it.  He  feared,  not  without  reason, 
that,  once  announced,  Jimmy's  arrival  would  become  for 
him  too  a  mere  worry,  a  matter  to  be  argued  over  and 
fussed  about.  Besides,  Jimmy  had  given  him  so  little 
time.  He  would  never  be  able  to  explain  anything  that 
night.  He  had  to  go  out.  He  was  late  already.  He  was 
tired  besides,  and  Alice  was  in  no  mood  for  it. 

This  last  reason  weighed  with  him  more  than  all  the 
others.  One  does  not  give  a  peevish  child  something 
delicate  and  exquisite  and  elusive  to  mishandle  perhaps. 
Jack  decided,  therefore,  to  keep  his  news  and  his  ex- 
planations to  himself  for  that  night.  To-morrow,  after 
poor  little  distracted  Alice  had  had  some  sleep,  he  would 
tell  her  everything. 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  69 

Having  come  to  this  decision  he  ran  upstairs  two  steps 
at  a  time  to  say  good  night  to  her.  As  he  went  he  real- 
ized that  he  felt  strangely  light-hearted.  After  all  it 
would  be  jolly  to  have  Jimmy  here.  She  was  such  a  good 
sort.  She  always  understood  everything,  and  she  would 
not  think  them  sordid.  He  had  been  ridiculous  ever  to 
think  such  a  thing.  Alice  and  he  had  been  getting  elderly 
and  stodgy  lately.  Jimmy  would  do  them  both  good.  Al- 
ready the  mere  thought  of  her  coming  had  refreshed  him. 

He  found  Alice  seated  brushing  her  hair.  His  eyes 
full  of  the  joy  of  life  met  her  melancholy  ones  glooming 
at  him  from  the  depths  of  the  mirror. 

"Just  come  to  say  good  night,  dear,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully. "I  have  to  go  out  again,  and  may  not  get  back  till 
morning.  Have  a  good  sleep  and  dream  of  your  new 
cook.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  she 's  going  to  be  a 
treasure." 

As  he  spoke  he  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulders  and 
parted  her  thick  fair  hair  with  his  other  hand.  Then 
turning  her  gloomy  face  up  to  his  he  kissed  her  tenderly 
on  the  lips.  There  was  something  lover-like  in  the  caress. 
The  glamour  of  their  recent  reunion  was  still  upon  him. 
There  was  regret  in  it  too  for  the  little  rift  which  was 
between  them.  There  was  the  new  zest  for  life  also 
which  Jimmy's  letter  had  revived. 

Alice  felt  it  all  instinctively,  and  it  soothed  her  secret 
bitterness. 

"Whatever  she  may  have  been,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"it 's  me  he  loves." 

And  she  returned  his  kiss  passionately. 

"Good  night,  dear,"  she  said.  "Good  night  and  good 
luck.  Cook  or  no  cook  I  '11  have  an  extra  good  breakfast 
waiting  for  you." 


70  WINTERGREEN 

He  went  toward  the  door  then,  and  all  would  have 
been  well  had  not  some  demon  of  mistrust,  emanating 
perhaps  from  the  darkened  window  across  the  street 
where  Clara  Fortescue  sat  wondering  what  was  going 
forward,  entered  where  she  could  not  penetrate,  bringing 
with  it  the  thought  of  what  Lydia  had  said.  And  sud- 
denly it  seemed  intolerable  to  Alice  that  she  and  Jack 
should  part  again  with  no  word  of  explanation  between 
them. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  turning  toward  him  when  his  hand 
was  already  on  the  door-handle,  "do  you  know  that  Miss 
Carmyle  from  Alimara  is  coming  to  Longshaws  to- 
morrow ?" 

Jack  paused  and  turned,  flushing  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair  from  sheer  annoyance  at  the  failure  of  his  dip- 
lomacy. It  is  always  irritating  to  be  forestalled.  He 
was  angry  also  at  Alice  for  the  tone  in  which  she  had 
put  her  question. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "I  meant  to  tell  you  to-morrow 
morning.  Here  is  the  letter  I  had  this  afternoon  if  you 
want  to  see  it." 

These  last  words  were  of  the  nature  of  a  reproach. 
That  neither  should  see  or  wish  to  see  the  other's  letters 
had  always  been  understood  between  them.  Jack  had 
been  glad  of  this  in  the  afternoon  when  the  letter  had 
arrived  from  Alimara.  But  as  he  stood  still  with  his 
hand  on  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  his  wife's  serious,  not  to  say  cross,  face,  as  luck 
would  have  it  some  sentences  of  the  letter  came  into  his 
mind  and  unconsciously  he  smiled  slightly. 

Unfortunately,  from  Alice's  point  of  view  there  was 
no  occasion  for  him  to  smile  just  then,  and  quite  sud- 
denly it  made  her  very  angry. 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  71 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  see  the  letter,"  she  said  coldly. 
"The  coming  of  Miss  Carmyle  to  Longshaws  is  of  no 
interest  whatever  to  me" 

The  emphasis  on  the  last  word  had  an  irritant  effect. 

"Then  it  ought  to  be,"  said  Jack  sharply.  "The  Car- 
myles  were  kindness  itself  to  me." 

His  tone  again  roused  Alice's  ire.  It  seemed  peremp- 
tory, dictatorial. 

"Oh,  I  have  no  doubt  she  was  perfect,"  she  replied, 
"or  at  least  that  you  thought  her  so.  Indeed,  I  have 
heard  as  much." 

"Alice!"  exclaimed  Jack,  both  amazed  and  indignant. 
"Will  you  explain  what  you  are  driving  at?  And  as 
quickly  as  you  can,  please.  I  am  late  already." 

"Oh,  I  won't  take  long,"  said  Alice,  letting  herself  go 
at  last.  "I  only  ask  you  not  to  get  talked  about  here 
as  you  were  talked  about  all  over  India.  Your  patients 
already  notice  a  difference  in  you  since  you  came  back, 
and  I  notice  it  too.  That 's  all.  I  have  nothing  more 
to  say." 

She  began  brushing  her  hair  again  with  great  violence. 

"But  I  have,"  said  Jack,  all  at  once  in  a  white  heat, 
"and  that  is  that  if  there  is  a  difference  in  me  there  is 
a  difference  in  you  too.  Before  I  went  away  three  years 
ago  you  would  never  have  thought  of  saying  such  a  thing 
to  me,  or  of  thinking  it  of  me.  Who  has  been  telling  you 
this  about  me — about  me  and  Miss  Carmyle?  Who  has 
put  such  things  into  your  head?  I  insist  upon  knowing, 
Alice." 

She  went  on  brushing  through  sheer  bravado,  but  as 
she  watched  his  face  in  the  glass  her  heart  beat  fast 
with  fear.  He  had  grown  suddenly  pale  with  rage.  His 
eyes  were  fierce  though  he  spoke  in  a  quiet  voice.  She 


72  WINTERGREEN 

hardly  knew  him  thus.  She  was  afraid  of  him.  He  was 
so  altered,  so  changed. 

"Who  was  it?"  he  demanded  again. 

"Somebody  had  written,"  said  Alice  faintly.  "A  Mrs. 
Crowley  to  Mrs.  Rutherford." 

These  names  fairly  let  loose  the  tempest. 

"So  Mrs.  Rutherford  came  to  you?"  stormed  Jack. 
"By  God,  I  '11 " 

"No,  no !  It  was  n't  Mrs.  Rutherford !"  explained 
Alice  hastily.  "She  only  told  the  Fortescues — and 
Lydia " 

"I  might  have  known  it,"  interrupted  Jack.  "I  might 
have  known  it  was  that  accursed  woman !" 

"Jack !"  exclaimed  Alice,  starting  to  her  feet  and  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot  in  her  excitement,  "I  can't  stand 
you  speaking  like  this." 

"Neither  can  I  stand  your  Lydia  Fortescue,"  retorted 
Jack.  "I  never  could.  She's  a  spying,  peering,  inter- 
fering old  hag.  That 's  what  she  is !" 

The  truth  was  that  ever  since  his  return  he  had  been 
suppressing  wrath  at  the  immanence  of  Lydia  in  the 
Bow  House.  He  had  bitten  his  lip  a  hundred  times  to 
keep  himself  from  swearing  when  she  had  appeared  upon 
the  scene.  She  had  always  seemed  to  choose  the  most 
inopportune  moments.  He  had  gradually  come  to  hate 
the  sight  of  her  both  in  general  and  in  detail.  He  had 
become  aware  of  her  influence  over  Alice,  of  which  both 
she  and  Alice  were  unconscious.  He  had  come  to  dislike 
everything  she  did,  her  manner  of  eating  and  drinking, 
her  way  of  rising  from  her  seat,  her  habit  of  looking 
timidly  in  at  doors  and  hoping  she  was  not  intruding. 
He  had  come  to  detest  even  her  clothes.  Her  toques, 
her  fichus,  had  long  been  to  him  in  secret  what  red  rags 


MEMBERS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  73 

are  to  a  bull.  But  Alice  had  known  nothing  of  this 
aversion.  She  was  appalled  now  at  its  sudden  manifes- 
tation. 

Nevertheless  she  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height 
of  five  feet  three  inches. 

She  cast  down  her  brush,  regardless  that  as  she  did 
so  she  knocked  over  a  puff-box  and  scattered  its  con- 
tents. Then,  with  her  fair  hair  all  about  her,  she  ad- 
dressed him  with  the  tragic  intensity  of  a  heroine  in  a 
third  act. 

"I  cannot  allow  you  to  insult  my  friends  even  behind 
their  backs,"  she  said  hoarsely.  "And  I  consider  myself 
fortunate  in  the  circumstances  in  which  I  find  myself 
to  have  Lydia  Fortescue  for  a  friend." 

"Have  her  then!"  cried  Jack.  "For  God's  sake  have 
her !  Only  don't  expect  to  have  me  too,  please." 

And  with  these  words,  uttered  with  great  vigor,  he 
went  out,  banging  the  door  after  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

In  which  an  Account  is  given   of  Some   Railway 

Accidents 

ALICE  stood  as  he  had  left  her  till  Jack's  footsteps 
had  clattered  down  the  stairs,  but  when  the  front 
door  had  banged  also,  she  resumed  her  seat.  Then,  lean- 
ing her  elbows  on  her  dressing-table,  she  stared  once 
more,  half  dazed,  half  crazed,  at  her  own  reflection  in 
the  mirror. 

So  this  was  the  end.  Jack  had  deserted  her,  not  out- 
wardly, but  far  more  really  than  if  he  had  gone  away  to 
India,  or  even  if  he  had  died.  Life  could  separate 
worse  than  death.  Some  one  had  said  so  somewhere. 
Now  she  knew  that  the  saying  was  true.  She  had  ex- 
perienced the  worst.  Nothing  more  terrible  than  this 
could  ever  happen  to  her.  That  she  should  desert  Lydia 
never  occurred  to  her,  but  she  was  glad  that  a  whole 
night  had  to  pass  before  her  next  meeting  with  her 
friend.  Even  Lydia,  since  she  had  come  that  afternoon 
on  her  mission  of  warning,  had  assumed  a  new  character. 
Formerly  it  had  been  Alice  who  had  been  sorry  for 
Lydia — poor  Lydia,  with  no  Jack  belonging  to  her. 
Henceforth  it  would  be  Lydia  who  would  be  sorry  for 
her.  She  must  adjust  herself  to  her  new  position,  be- 
fore meeting  all  those  people,  who  now  seemed  to  her 
excited  imagination  to  be  watching  her  on  every  side. 

74 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  75 

In  this,  of  course,  she  was  exaggerating  her  own  im- 
portance and  the  interest  she  aroused  in  the  community. 
As  yet  no  one  but  the  Fortescues  and  the  Ruther fords 
had  heard  anything  but  the  official  news  of  Jack's  doings 
at  Alimara.  They  had  only  heard  of  the  splendid  work 
he  had  done  in  the  hospital  there,  of  his  self-sacrifice,  of 
his  efficiency.  They  had  heard  nothing  yet  of  anything 
else,  least  of  all  of  anything  discreditable.  But  to  Alice, 
brooding  there  and  imagining  that  every  one  was  think- 
ing of  her,  it  was  just  as  bad  as  if  they  had  been. 

She  did  not  weep.  She  was  too  stunned,  too  bewild- 
ered, for  that.  The  one  distinct  thought  in  her  mind 
was  that  Jack,  openly,  before  all  those  people,  was  about 
to  desert  her  for  this  woman  who  was  coming  on  the 
morrow.  Jack,  Jack,  the  playmate  of  her  childhood,  her 
boy-lover,  who  had  shared  all  her  joys  and  sorrows  since 
she  could  remember,  who  had  known  all  the  recesses 
of  her  heart  as  she  had  known  his,  until  this  creature 
who  danced  so  rippingly,  had  danced  into  it  and  shut  its 
doors  against  her. 

The  new  grief  stirred  up  an  old  one.  If  she  had  only 
had  a  child!  If  Jack  had  had  a  son  to  come  back  to, 
then  she  would  have  had  a  hold  over  him.  But  no,  no.  It 
was  better  as  it  was.  How  awful  to  have  a  hold  over 
him  that  he  might  consider  only  a  hindrance !  No.  The 
war  had  changed  and  ruined  everything.  It  had  passed 
across  their  life  together  like  one  of  its  own  dreadful 
tanks,  crushing  in  its  path  all  the  flowers  of  happiness 
that  had  been  budding  there.  The  black  despair  of  youth 
that  sees  no  future  beyond  present  calamity  took  posses- 
sion of  her.  Everything  was  ended,  it  seemed,  before 
it  had  well  begun.  All  was  past.  All  the  love  and  con- 
fidence which  had  seemed  so  invincible,  so  immutable, 


76  WINTERGREEN 

so  eternal.  Jack  was  already  hers  no  longer.  He  had 
received  news  of  the  coming  of  this  woman  and  had 
kept  it  to  himself.  He  had  left  her — his  wife — to  be 
informed  of  it  by  any  one  who  chose  to  tell  her.  He  had 
been  bewitched  by  this  beautiful  stranger  and  she — Alice 
— had  no  chance  against  her. 

In  her  misery  she  stung  herself  like  a  wounded  scor- 
pion. She  denounced  herself  savagely  to  her  own  face. 
She  denounced  her  hair,  her  complexion,  even  her  eyes. 
They  were  all  faded.  There  were  little  new  lines  too 
about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"Ugh !"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  discarding  herself. 

And  she  did  not  stop  at  her  physical  defects.  She  told 
herself  vindictively  that  she  was  not  only  ugly,  but  use- 
less. She  had  never  been  a  good  manager,  but  in  the 
former  days  she  had  had  good  servants  who  had  con- 
cealed her  shortcomings.  Now,  however,  now  of  all 
times,  everything  was  dreadfully  different.  The  war  had 
found  her  out.  It  had  absorbed  all  the  good  servants. 
For  weeks  and  weeks  she  had  been  unable  to  find  any. 
Incapable  had  succeeded  incapable  at  the  Bow  House, 
each  leaving  a  trail  of  dirt  and  destruction  behind  her. 
And  now  Mrs.  Dick,  the  embodiment  of  everything  that 
was  hateful  and  horrible,  had  been  for  weeks  in  resi- 
dence. Never  since  she  had  entered  the  Bow  House  had 
the  ordinary  comforts  of  life  been  at  such  a  low  ebb  in 
it.  Its  food  was  often  barely  eatable,  its  rooms  not  half 
cleaned.  All  the  old  pleasant  dainty  little  customs  of 
pre-war  times  were  in  abeyance.  Strife  and  din,  dust 
and  confusion,  chaos  and  revolt,  were  always  present, 
always  having  to  be  concealed  from  Jack,  always  threat- 
ening to  overwhelm  her.  At  the  thought  of  everything 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  77 

she  suddenly  burst  into  wild  tears,  and  had  laid  her  head 
upon  her  arms  to  weep,  when  all  at  once  the  telephone 
bell  rang  in  the  hall  downstairs. 

A  doctor's  wife  must  be  ready  for  action  even  in  the 
midst  of  an  emotional  crisis.  Alice  half-mechanically 
rose  to  the  occasion,  and  dabbing  her  eyes  by  the  way, 
betook  herself  to  the  post  of  duty. 

The  hall  light  was  full  on,  another  symptom  of  Jack's 
condition.  This  time,  however,  she  noticed  nothing,  but, 
dabbing  her  eyes  once  more,  she  took  up  the  receiver. 

The  call  was  from  Edinburgh. 

She  waited  for  some  time.  No  presentiment  came  to 
her,  no  forewarning,  only  the  usual  fizzings  and  crack- 
lings and  brief  questions  peculiar  to  long-distance  calls. 

Then  all  at  once  a  high  clear  voice  like  a  boy's  voice 
said: 

"Is  that  Dr.  Adair?" 

"No,"  said  Alice.    "Dr.  Adair  has  gone  out." 

"Oh,  dash  it,  what  a  pity !"  said  the  voice  in  an  audible 
aside.  Then  loud  again,  "Will  you  tell  him,"  it  went  on, 
"that  Miss  Carmyle  was  ringing  up,  and  is  starting  to- 
morrow from  Edinburgh  by  the  afternoon  train?  Is 
Mrs.  Adair  in?  Can  I  speak  to  her?" 

"No,"  said  Alice  curtly  and  rang  off  forthwith. 

Wild  ringings  ensued.  She  paid  no  attention  to  them, 
but  taking  up  the  appointment-slate  she  wrote  down  the 
message  upon  it  with  a  firm  hand.  Then,  all  her  tears 
dried  and  her  grief  transmuted  into  wrath,  she  went 
away  upstairs  again. 

Jack  had  taken  a  perverted  pleasure  in  making  his  exit 
as  noisy  as  possible,  but  he  had  not  gone  far  before  he 


78  WINTERGREEN 

was  regretting  it.  If  he  could  have  spared  the  time  he 
would  have  returned  and  begged  Alice's  pardon  for  his 
behavior.  He  realized  that  it  had  been  babyish  and  very 
badly  timed.  Why  could  he  not  have  kept  his  temper? 
After  all,  it  was  no  wonder  that  Alice  had  been  disturbed. 
This  misunderstanding — even  by  old  cats — of  his  friend- 
ship with  the  commissioner's  niece  had  disturbed  even 
himself.  As  he  guided  his  motor  through  the  night,  his 
eyes  on  the  circle  of  light  on  the  road  in  front  of  him, 
Jimmy  began,  in  spite  of  him,  to  take  on  a  new  aspect. 

The  thought  returned  which  had  first  occurred  to  him 
in  front  of  the  fire  when  he  was  reading  her  letter. 
And  again  it  startled  and  disconcerted  him.  Was  it  pos- 
sible, he  asked  himself,  that  what  people  said  was  true? 
that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  friendship  possible  be- 
tween man  and  woman  ?  that  sooner  or  later  on  one  side 
or  the  other  it  was  bound  to  develop  into  love? 

After  all,  there  was  no  getting  past  the  fact  that  it  was 
on  the  day  she  had  received  his  letter  that  she  had  broken 
off  her  engagement,  also  that  she  had  implied  that  she 
was  coming  to  Longshaws  mainly  in  order  to  be  near 
him.  Was  it  possible  that  Jimmy  could  actually  be  in 
love?  Had  these  other  women — these  old  cats  of  Ali- 
mara — seen  more  in  their  experience  than  he  had  been 
able  to  see? 

Suddenly  he  was  conscious  of  a  new  and  rather  un- 
comfortable feeling  of  solicitude  for  Jimmy.  Somehow, 
though  she  had  been  engaged  to  old  Dawson,  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  think  of  her  as  in  love  before.  She 
had  seemed  a  sprite,  a  minx,  a  tomboy,  never  a  woman. 
Had  she  really  been  a  woman  all  the  time  ?  The  thought 
was  strangely  moving.  He  glanced  up  at  the  stars. 
There  they  were,  the  Pleiades,  the  Seven  Sisters,  who 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  79 

had  been  wont  to  look  down  on  them  in  India,  who  still — 
how  often  had  he  thought  of  it  since — looked  down 
nightly  in  vain  for  them  there  like  Omar  Khayyam's 
moon.  Surely  they  had  talked  of  every  subject  under 
them — except  love.  Was  that  suspicious?  Was  that  a 
symptom?  .  .  . 

Ah,  no — he  remembered  now, — she  had  spoken  of  love 
once!  She  had  put  a  problem  before  him  and  he  had 
answered  her.  Had  she  meant  more  by  it  at  the  time 
than  she  had  seemed  to  mean? 

"What  would  you  do,"  she  had  said,  "if  you  were  en- 
gaged to  some  one  and  then  found  that  you  liked  another 
better?" 

"I  would  abandon  the  position,"  he  had  said. 

"Even  if  the  second  never  knew  of  it?"  had  been  the 
next  question. 

"Certainly,"  he  had  replied.  "That  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it." 

"Even  if  the  first  were  devoted  to  you?"  Jimmy  had 
persisted. 

"I  would  do  it  for  that  reason  more  than  any  other," 
he  had  answered. 

As  he  thought  over  this  conversation  his  mind  misgave 
him.  For  the  space  of  about  two  miles  he  wondered 
miserably  about  things,  while  the  motor  toiled  slowly  up- 
hill between  high  hedges.  But  as  he  came  out  again 
into  the  open  at  the  top  of  the  incline,  his  last  memory 
of  Jimmy  triumphed,  of  Jimmy's  blowing  smoke-rings  at 
him  in  her  uncle's  veranda,  and  giving  him  the  benefit  of 
her  philosophy. 

"Oh,  rot!"  he  exclaimed  aloud  to  the  Seven  Sisters. 
"Jimmy  in  love  with  me  ?  Nonsense !  She  does  n't  care 
a  damn  in  that  way  for  anybody.  She  's  not  that  sort." 


8o  WINTERGREEN 

Then  his  thoughts  flew  back  to  Alice  like  homing  birds, 
and  he  was  filled  with  remorse  for  his  part  in  their 
altercation.  How  cross  they  had  both  been !  How  cross 
Alice  had  been — not  because  she  doubted  him,  of  course 
not.  But  because,  loyal  little  soul  she  had  been  afraid 
for  his  reputation.  She  had  been  afraid  of  Jimmy.  For 
of  course  she  did  not  know  Jimmy.  When  she  did, 
everything  would  be  all  right.  Once  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  absurdity  Jimmy  would  dispel  it  as  the  sun  dispels 
mist.  All  that  was  necessary  was  that  he  should  keep 
his  temper  in  the  meantime,  and  not  raise  a  barrier  of 
mole-hill  mountains  between  him  and  Alice — the  one  love 
of  his  life. 

How  lovely  she  had  been  standing  there  in  her  pink 
dressing-gown,  with  her  hair  all  about  her,  her  cheeks 
scarlet,  her  eyes  shining  while  she  was  defending  that 
old  hag  of  hers !  How  splendid  it  had  been  of  her  to 
do  it,  and  how  like  her !  He  remembered  how,  long  ago, 
when  she  was  still  in  pinafores,  she  had  protected  an  old 
rag  doll  from  him  in  the  same  manner.  And  at  this 
recollection  something  deep  and  fundamental  suddenly 
awoke  in  the  depths  of  his  consciousness,  something  which 
no  other  memories,  however  vivid  they  might  be,  had 
power  to  stir. 

With  this  came  a  new  recognition  of  the  fact  that  no 
one  in  all  the  world  could  be  to  him  like  Alice.  But 
she — poor  Alice — had  seen  a  difference  in  him  since  he 
came  back.  And  no  wonder.  It  would  have  been  strange 
if  she  had  not.  The  man  who  had  returned  to  Cauld- 
stanes  was  very  different  from  the  man  who  three  years 
before  had  left  it.  Then  he  had  newly  settled  down  to 
work,  his  whole  youth  and  energy  and  interest  devoted 
to  it,  his  thoughts  entirely  occupied  by  the  needs  of  his 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  81 

practice  and  the  calls  it  made  upon  his  skill  and  sympathy. 

Now  all  was  changed.  The  war,  like  a  great  magi- 
cian, had  transported  him  across  half  the  world  and  had 
set  him  down  remote  from  everything  with  which  he 
had  been  familiar.  He  had  seen  strange  places  and 
strange  people,  had  experienced  responsibility  on  a  large 
scale,  had  watched  makers  of  empire  in  their  work-time 
and  in  their  play-time,  and  had  for  the  nonce  been  one 
of  them  himself. 

He  was  glad  to  get  back  to  the  old  life  once  more,  but 
between  the  former  and  the  latter  days  there  had  been 
a  great  interlude.  And  never,  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world,  could  he  ever  again  be  the  same  as  he  had  been 
before  it. 

While  he  sat  that  night  watching  the  issue  of  a  struggle 
between  life  and  death  in  a  lonely  little  farm-house  on 
the  uplands  above  Cauldstanes,  he  realized  this  for  the 
first  time  fully  and  distinctly.  He  realized  also  that  the 
war,  which  had  brought  him  such  enlargement,  had 
brought  Alice  merely  imprisonment  in  a  dull  sick-room, 
with  none  of  the  excitement  of  honor  and  glory  attend- 
ing her  work  there  which  it  had  brought  to  other  women. 
No  wonder  she  had  returned  to  the  old  life  once  more, 
darkened  instead  of  enlightened  by  her  experience,  she 
who  had  only  had  her  sick  sister-in-law,  and  fantasies 
and  Fortescues  for  company.  Surely  she  needed  now 
as  much  consideration  as  the  unhappy  Gardshore.  At 
the  beginning  of  their  life  together  he  had  been  taken 
from  her,  and  all  the  love  and  devotion  he  could  give 
her  now  would  never  quite  make  up  for  it.  At  the 
thought  of  this  a  passionate  longing  for  reconciliation 
rose  within  him  like  a  tide  and  swept  away  all  other 
thoughts.  As  soon  as  possible  therefore  in  the  early  dawn- 


82  WINTERGREEN 

ing  he  made  for  home  again  at  top  speed,  ready,  as  Mrs. 
Dick  would  have  put  it,  to  go  on  his  bended  knees  to  Alice. 

He  shivered  a  little  as  he  entered  the  dim  Bow  House, 
and  remembered  that  he  had  been  promised  an  extra 
good  breakfast. 

"But  it  won't  be  there,"  he  said  to  himself  ruefully. 
"And  indeed  I  don't  desrve  it." 

Nevertheless  he  looked  into  the  dining-room  to  make 
sure. 

The  breakfast  was  there!  A  bright  fire  was  burning. 
A  kettle  was  steaming.  The  table  was  standing  ready 
spread,  with  cold  meat,  bread,  butter,  marmalade. 

"Oh,  the  dear  little  darling!"  he  exclaimed,  much 
touched. 

The  feast,  he  took  it,  was  a  peace-offering,  an  olive- 
branch,  and  presently  the  dove  who  had  brought  it  would 
come  stealing  down  in  her  pink  dressing-gown  to  make 
it  up  with  him. 

Too  impatient  to  wait  even  a  moment  for  this  denoue- 
ment he  ran  upstairs  to  let  the  dove  know  he  had  ar- 
rived. Poor  little  fluttering  pet!  So  she  had  wished  to 
propitiate  him,  when  of  course  everything  had  been 
entirely  his  fault!  Well,  no  matter  now.  A  moment 
more  and  she  would  be  in  his  arms,  her  eyes  would  be 
looking  into  his,  his  lips  would  be  on  hers. 

But  on  the  threshold  of  the  bedroom  he  came  to  an 
abrupt  halt.  The  cold  dawn  light  was  coming  in  through 
the  window-curtains,  but  no  eager  penitent  was  coming 
to  meet  him.  As  for  the  pink  dressing-gown,  it  had  been 
discarded  and  now  hung  disconsolately  over  the  back  of 
a  chair.  Hardly  had  he  become  aware  of  these  de- 
pressing circumstances  when  a  frigid  voice  from  the  bed 
announced : 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  83 

"Your  breakfast  is  ready,  and  there  is  a  message  from 
your  friend,  Miss  Carmyle,  downstairs." 

These  words  uttered  in  an  indescribably  distant  man- 
ner, the  dove  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  as  though  con- 
scious of  a  duty  well  discharged,  and,  almost  burying  her- 
self in  the  bed-clothes,  composed  or  seemed  to  compose 
herself  to  slumber. 

Jack  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  on  second 
thoughts  he  closed  it  again.  At  that  moment  he  could 
have  cursed  both  Jimmy  and  Alice  in  one  curse.  For 
an  instant  longer  he  stood  contemplating  the  quilt,  the 
crown  of  fair  hair  and  the  long  thick  plait  which  still 
emerged  from  it.  Then  — abruptly  he  turned  his  back 
upon  them  in  disgust  and  went  downstairs  again. 

His  irritation  increased  with  every  step  he  took,  and 
the  sight  of  the  message  from  Edinburgh,  written  fiercely 
across  the  slate  with  a  hard  black  pencil,  turned  it  into 
anger.  All  his  remorse  evaporated,  all  his  passionate 
longing  for  reconciliation  congealed  in  that  moment  like 
the  waters  of  the  Red  Sea.  Even  the  sight  of  the  prepa- 
rations for  breakfast  now  only  increased  his  wrath. 
Accompanied,  as  they  had  been,  by  a  reception  implying 
reproach  and  suspicion  they  were  an  insult  of  the  first 
degree.  If  he  had  not  been  so  hungry,  he  declared  to 
himself,  he  would  not  have  tasted  a  bally  mouthful.  As 
it  was  he  soon  pushed  away  his  plate,  and  sat  down  by 
the  fire  to  hold  a  council  of  war  with  himself. 

He  was  thankful  at  least  that  he  had  not  spoken  one 
word.  To  have  made  any  remark  at  all  would  have  been 
undignified.  Alice  should  know  by  this  time,  without  his 
telling  her  so,  that  he  had  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 
If  she  chose  to  believe  otherwise  because  of  senseless 
idiots,  well,  so  much  the  worse  for  her. 


84  WINTERGREEN 

At  the  same  time,  after  long  reflection,  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  with  Alice  in  this  state  of  mind  it  would 
be  well  for  the  sake  of  all  parties  to  warn  Jimmy  the  In- 
discreet of  altered  conditions  and  against  over-freedom 
of  speech. 

But  Mrs.  Rutherford  of  Longshaws  was  the  Fortes- 
cue's  first  cousin,  and  perhaps  the  worst  cat  of  the  lot. 

To  write  a  note  of  welcome,  therefore,  or  to  meet 
Jimmy  at  Longshaws  station,  as  she  evidently  expected 
him  to  do,  would  be,  perhaps,  unwise.  The  more  he 
thought  of  it,  however,  the  more  he  was  convinced  of 
the  necessity  for  some  preliminary  measure.  He  decided 
at  last,  in  a  kind  of  desperation,  to  go  that  afternoon  by 
motor  to  meet  Jimmy  at  Brakely  Junction,  twelve  miles 
up  the  line,  where  she  would  have  to  change  and  wait 
half  an  hour  for  a  train  to  take  her  on  to  her  destination. 

Meantime  the  two  women  who,  each  in  her  own  way, 
had  already  caused  so  much  disturbance  were  both  en 
route  for  Brakely  Junction  in  different  compartments  of 
the  same  railway  carriage. 

Jimmy,  with  her  large  black  hat  disposed  of  for  the 
moment  on  the  rack,  and  her  hair,  "the  color  of  autumn 
beech  leaves  with  the  sun  shining  through  them,"  in  the 
most  admired  disorder,  was  looking  on  appreciatively 
while  an  old  gentleman  opposite,  with  much  puffing  and 
blowing,  was  strapping  things  into  her  traveling  rug. 

"He  could  n't  do  it  a  bit,  you  know,"  she  said  after- 
wards, "but  he  would  do  it,  poor  dear." 

He  would  have  done  a  good  deal  more  had  he  not 
been  deterred  therefrom  by  the  expression  on  his  wife's 
face,  which,  even  when  it  was  hidden  behind  her  news- 
paper, he  knew  to  be  unappreciative  of  Jimmy,  to  say  the 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  85 

least  of  it.  As  it  was  he  had  enough  to  occupy  him.  One 
after  another,  things  which  had  been  forgotten  were 
found.  Before  they  arrived  he  had  had  to  undo  the  strap 
of  that  traveling  rug  three  times. 

This  being  so,  it  was  rather  hard  that  the  moment  the 
train  drew  up  at  Brakely  his  charming  traveling  com- 
panion paid  him  no  more  attention,  the  reason  for  this 
obviously  being  the  appearance  on  the  platform  of  an 
abominably  attractive  man  evidently  on  the  lookout  for 
some  one. 

"Oh,  how  splendid!"  she  exclaimed,  clapping  her 
hands,  whenever  she  saw  him.  Then  leaning  out  of  the 
window— "Jack !"  she  called,  "Jack!  Mr.  Wu!  Here  I 
am!" 

In  a  moment  Jack  was  at  the  door,  and  had  taken  over 
charge,  while  Jimmy,  with  a  perfunctory  "Thanks  so 
much"  had  whipped  on  her  hat  again  and  left  the  car- 
riage. 

"Her  brother,  no  doubt,"  said  the  ex-assistant  wist- 
fully as  he  watched  the  two  on  the  platform  talking 
eagerly  together. 

"Oh,  no  doubt,"  said  his  wife  sardonically.  "No  pos- 
sible doubt  whatever." 

The  only  other  passenger  who  had  left  the  train  was 
Wintergreen,  and  she  had  done  it  without  assistance, 
although  she  was  encumbered  by  a  large  hand-bag  and 
a  fairly  bulky  suit-case.  She  summoned  a  porter,  and 
gave  these  things  into  his  charge.  Then  she  began  saun- 
tering up  the  long  narrow  platform. 

In  the  train  which  was  just  starting  again  two  wags 
took  note  of  her. 

"  'Ee,  look  at  Queen  Victoria !"  said  the  one  to  the 
other. 


86  WINTERGREEN 

It  might,  indeed,  have  been  the  ghost  of  that  lady 
loitering  there  in  her  middle  age.  Wintergreen  was  at- 
tired in  elastic-sided  boots,  a  very  ample  frilled  skirt,  a 
dolman,  and  a  bonnet  which  completely  concealed  all  the 
hair  that  its  wearer  possessed  except  two  smooth  brown 
bands,  one  on  each  side  of  her  forehead.  Her  face  also 
at  that  moment  was  not  unlike  her  late  Majesty's. 
Anxiety  as  to  the  prospects  of  her  enterprise  was  mold- 
ing the  lines  of  it  into  a  rather  heavy  seriousness.  It 
relaxed  considerably,  however,  when  at  the  end  of  her 
promenade  she  turned  and  came  face  to  face  with  Jack 
and  Jimmy. 

O  youth !    O  beauty !    O  joy  of  life ! 

Jack  for  the  moment  was  back  again  in  Alimara. 
Brakely  and  all  the  old  cats  on  his  horizon  had  vanished 
for  the  moment,  and  he  was  in  fits  of  laughter  at  some 
trifle  Jimmy  had  been  telling  him. 

The  gay  exuberance  of  the  couple  and  their  evident 
delight  in  each  other's  society  were  both  disarming  and 
infectious.  Some  sympathetic  twinkle  in  Wintergreen's 
eyes  as  she  passed  them  caught  the  attention  of  Jimmy. 

"What  an  old  darling!"  she  said  under  her  breath  to 
her  companion.  "Do  just  look  at  her,  Jack.  Is  n't  she 
perfectly  sweet?" 

Jack  turned  and  regarded  the  old  darling's  broad  back 
as  she  slowly  wended  her  way  along  the  platform,  her 
frilled  skirt  trailing  a  little  behind  her. 

"She  does  look  a  jolly  old  sort,"  he  said  perfunctorily. 

"I  suppose  she  is  one  of  those  dear  delightful  old 
Scotswomen  one  reads  about,"  said  Jimmy  as  they  went 
on  again,  "who  wear  the  same  old  clothes  for  fifty  years." 

"She  looks  like  it,"  said  Jack. 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  87 

But  the  mention  of  old  Scotswomen  had  had  an  instan- 
taneously sobering  effect.  It  had  reminded  him  of  his 
special  mission,  which  he  had  forgotten  for  the  moment 
in  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Jimmy  again.  Now,  he  re- 
flected, he  must  really  tackle  it  before  this  precious  half- 
hour  was  over. 

"Jimmy,"  he  said  suddenly,  therefore,  and  apropos 
of  nothing,  "I  came  on  purpose  here  to  meet  you." 

"Why,  of  course,  Jack,"  said  Jimmy  with  a  little  laugh, 
"I  know  that." 

"I  came  partly  for  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you,"  he 
went  on  doggedly.  "But  also  partly " 

"Partly  to  tell  me  that  all  was  over  between  us," 
laughed  Jimmy;  but  her  laugh  was  a  little  bitter.  "I 
knew  that  when  I  first  saw  you.  I  knew  you  had  taken 
Dawson's  part." 

"I  have  done  nothing  of  the  sort!"  exclaimed  Jack. 
"I — I  was  very  glad  you  broke  it  off  with  Dawson — if — 
if  you  did  n't  want  to  marry  him.  Anything  would  be 
better  than  to  be  married  to  the  wrong  person." 

"Oh,  I  knew  you  would  say  that!"  exclaimed  Jimmy 
inconsistently,  and  clasping  her  hands  enthusiastically,  "I 
knew  you  would!" 

"But  that 's  not  what  I  want  to  speak  about  now,"  said 
Jack,  flushing  as  he  met  her  eager  eyes,  for  suddenly, 
in  spite  of  himself,  he  had  experienced  a  slight  return  of 
the  uncomfortable  doubts  of  the  morning.  Was  he  only 
imagining  it,  or  was  this  really  not  quite  the  same  Jimmy 
he  had  left  at  Alimara?  Surely  it  was  a  new,  rather 
strange,  very  much  more  human  Jimmy.  The  thought 
made  him  slightly  giddy.  He  thrust  it  back,  however. 
"That 's  not  what  I  want  to  speak  about,"  he  repeated. 


88  WINTERGREEN 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,  Jimmy,  before  you  arrived — to 
warn  you  that  here — that  here  things  are  a  little  differ- 
ent." 

"How  different?"  she  asked,  coming  to  a  standstill 
at  the  end  of  the  platform  and  regarding  him  attentively 
and  gravely.  "How  do  you  mean  different,  Jack?  Just 
tell  me  and  I  '11  know  it." 

"I  'm  going  to,"  he  said  nervously,  "and  it 's  awfully 
good  of  you  to  help  me  like  this.  To  begin  with — we  are 
to  be  as  great  pals  as  ever — that,  of  course,  is  under- 
stood." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  she  said;  but  she  said  it  a  little  un- 
certainly, and  a  moment  after  he  was  shocked  to  see  her 
brown  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

He  had  never  seen  tears  in  them  before. 

"Jimmy!"  he  exclaimed  in  dismay,  "you  are  never  go- 
ing to  cry,  are  you?  If — if  this  is  to  hurt  you  I  '11  not 
tell  you  anything,  and  blow  the  consequences." 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  half  laughing  again  at  his  vehem- 
ence. "See,  I  am  not  crying  any  more.  Tell  me — any- 
thing— everything.  Really — I  'd  much  rather." 

"Well  then,"  said  Jack,  plunging  into  the  midst  of 
things,  "Cauldstanes  is  not  Alimara." 

At  this  her  whole  face  changed  again  as  suddenly  and 
incomprehensively  as  before. 

"Oh,  Jack,  you  are  delicious,"  she  said,  throwing  back 
her  head  to  laugh.  "Is  that  all?  Cauldstanes  is  not  Ali- 
mara. Well,  I  should  think  not.  It  sounds  cooler  any- 
way. It  sounds  like  lovely  big  waves  rushing  over  sunken 
rocks." 

"Whatever  it  is,  it 's  my  home,"  he  said,  perplexed  and 
a  little  disconcerted. 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  89 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Of  course  you  love 
it." 

"I  do,"  said  Jack  simply,  "but  things  are  very  different 
here.  Out  in  India,  though  I  had  lots  to  do,  I  did  have 
some  time  to  myself.  Here,  just  now  at  least,  I  have 
virtually  none — ever " 

"How  awful!"  exclaimed  Jimmy  sympathetically. 
"You  poor  dear!  And — and  even  at  home  you  have  pa- 
tients, haven't  you?  That — that  Mr.  Gardshore  you 
wrote  about " 

The  last  sentence  was  so  faintly  spoken  that  he  did  not 
hear  it,  his  mind  being  full  also  at  the  moment  of  the 
first  part  of  the  speech.  He  was  hoping — though  he 
knew  it  meant  nothing  from  Jimmy — that  she  would  not 
call  him  "poor  dear"  in  public.  The  hope,  and  the  fear 
that  it  would  not  be  justified,  nerved  him  to  go  on  with 
his  mission. 

"At  present  I  have  really  no  time  to  myself  unless  I 
take  it  from  my  patients,"  he  continued.  "And  when  I 
am  not  actually  attending  to  them  I  have  to  be  thinking 
about  them,  considering  their  sensibilities,  taking  care  not 
to  offend  them.  Though  I  love  my  work  I  hate  that 
part  of  it.  Yet  it 's  got  to  be  done,  Jimmy.  And  that 's 
where  the  difference  comes  in  between  here  and  Ali- 
mara." 

"You  poor  dear !"  said  Jimmy  again.  "But  I  see  quite 
well  what  you  mean.  I  quite  understand.  You  have  no 
time  to  entertain  me.  You  would  like  to,  I  know,  but 
you  can't.  But  never  mind,  you  '11  do  what  you  can,  and 
I  '11  take  the  will  for  the  deed." 

"Jimmy,  you  are  a  real  brick,"  he  said  heartily.  "I 
knew  you  would  understand." 


90  WINTERGREEN 

But  he  said  it  with  a  sinking  feeling.  She  had  not 
understood;  not  yet.  Would  she  ever  understand?  If 
not,  what  would  happen?  Well,  in  any  case  he  must  go 
on  now  to  the  end. 

"There's  just  one  other  thing,"  he  continued.  "My 
wife " 

"Ah,  yes — Alice,"  said  Jimmy.  "I  am  longing  to  know 
Alice." 

"And  I  am  longing  for  her  to  know  you,"  he  replied, 
"because — and  that 's  partly  what  I  came  here  for,  Jimmy 
—an  awkward  thing,  a  beastly  thing  has  happened  about 
Alice." 

He  paused.    Jimmy's  whole  face  was  one  question. 

"She 's  rather  run  down,"  Jack  went  on.  "She  was 
overworked  while  I  was  away — and  small  things  upset 
her.  She  gets  easily  worried.  And  that  old  cat,  Mrs. 
Crowley  at  Alimara,  has  chosen  this  time  of  all  times 
to  write  home  some  trumped  up  tale  about  us  to  Mrs. 
Rutherford." 

"About  you?"  exclaimed  Jimmy.  'About  you  and 
Alice?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Jack,  scarlet  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 
"About — about — you  and  me,  Jimmy." 

"The  brute!"  exclaimed  Jimmy,  in  a  flame  of  anger. 
"You  don't  mean — Oh,  the  brute!  I  shall  never  forgive 
her.  And  so,  of  course,  Alice  hates  me — well,  no  won- 
der !  I  'd  be  the  very  same  if Oh,  why  did  I  ever 

consent  to  stay  with  the  Crowleys?  She  always  disliked 
me,  of  course,  but  now  she  detests  me.  You  see  old 
Crowley  is  rather  a.  flirt,  poor  soul,  though  he  is  a  good 
sort,  and  she  is  a  jealous  fiend.  It 's  just  like  her  now  to 
try  to  spoil  everything." 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  91 

"But  we  '11  not  let  her,"  exclaimed  Jack  eagerly.  "She 
can't!" 

Jimmy's  tornado  of  wrath  had  completely  restored 
him,  not  only  to  himself,  but  to  her.  All  his  uncom- 
fortable doubts  and  fears  about  her  had  been  scattered 
now  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven.  This  was  Jimmy,  the 
old  Jimmy  again,  and  no  other,  his  chum,  his  pal,  as  he 
had  always  known  her. 

"No,  of  course  she  can't,"  she  exclaimed  as  eagerly 
as  he  had  done.  "You  leave  it  to  me,  Jack  dear.  It's 
a  mercy  I  've  come.  I  '11  beat  that  old  devil — you  '11  see — 
I  '11  come  and  see  Alice,  and  everything  will  be  all  right." 

"I  'm  sure  it  will,"  said  Jack.  "I  feel  already  as 
though  it  were." 

"But,  Jimmy,"  he  added,  remembering  his  last  injunc- 
tion, "do  be  careful  with  the  Rutherfords.  He  's  another 
old  flirt,  and  she  's  a  cat  of  the  first  degree,  who  knows 
every  soul  in  the  neighborhood." 

"Leave  them  to  me,"  said  Jimmy. 

They  had  no  time  for  more.  Raucous  shouts  inter- 
rupted .them  from  the  porter  with  whom  they  had  left 
the  luggage.  It  seemed  that  he  had  told  them  three  times 
that  the  train  for  Longshaws  was  in. 

Wintergreen,  establishing  herself  in  a  corner  seat, 
heard  him  in  the  corridor  outside  her  compartment  ani- 
madverting upon  passengers  who  wandered  away  to  the 
back  of  beyond  when  it  was  past  train  time. 

"A  station  's  nae  place  for  honeymoonin',"  he  added. 

Mildly  interested,  Wintergreen  watched  the  delin- 
quents run  past  her  window,  Jimmy  leading,  Jack  hard 
at  her  heels,  and  supposed  that  the  former  must  have 
found  a  seat  somewhere,  for  when  the  train  went  on 


92  WINTERGREEN 

again  only  Jack  was  left.  His  face  was  flushed  and  eager 
and  very  boyish,  with  a  strange  expression  on  it  of  regret 
mingled  with  relief.  She  noted  it  in  passing,  and  pon- 
dered for  a  little  upon  it,  then  dismissed  it  to  the  limbo 
of  things  that  are  past  and  done  with. 

She  was  alone  in  her  compartment  for  the  first  time 
since  the  beginning  of  her  journey,  and,  for  the  first  time 
also,  she  was  in  the  mood  for  reflection.  Up  till  then 
the  anxiety  of  getting  clear  away  and  tackling  all  the 
various  problems  which  had  confronted  her  had  obscured 
all  other  thoughts.  But  now,  with  a  night  and  a  day 
between  her  and  the  old  life,  she  felt  inclined  to  retros- 
pect. The  hour,  too,  was  propitious.  Evening  was  clos- 
ing down  over  the  woods  and  the  level  fields.  Those  in 
the  distance  were  already  shrouded  in  mist.  Sheep  and 
cattle  were  moving  like  ghosts  of  themselves  between 
the  dark  dividing  hedges.  Half-hypnotized,  Wintergreen 
sat  watching  the  telegraph  poles,  ghostly,  too,  in  the  dim 
light  as  they  passed  them  one  after  the  other,  marking 
the  stages  of  her  progress  into  a  new  existence.  And  as 
she  watched  the  thought  of  Mr.  Macfarlane  came  into 
her  mind,  of  Mr.  Carrick,  of  Dawson  and  Dalrymple,  of 
the  Clackmannans  now  doubtless  taking  up  residence  at 
the  lodge,  of  the  Skellicks  itself  standing  dark  and  un- 
inhabited. 

A  fresh  realization  of  her  absolute  freedom  from  them 
all  made  her  want  to  hug  herself  with  satisfaction.  Those 
people,  most  of  whom  had  been  so  troublesome,  all 
seemed  already  as  though  they  belonged  to  another  world. 
Here  she  was  free,  not  only  from  them  all,  but  from 
all  responsibility  whatsoever.  She  was  on  her  way  to 
seek  her  fortune  like  the  younger  son  in  a  fairy-tale. 
The  thought  was  wonderfully  rejuvenating.  It  absorbed 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  93 

her  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else  until  a  voice  close  by  her 
said — 

"Do  you  know  that  there  has  been  an  accident?" 

Turning  hastily  she  found  the  lady-honeymooner  from 
the  station  at  Brakely,  looking,  if  anything,  prettier  than 
ever. 

"An  accident?"  she  exclaimed,  aghast. 

"Yes,  nothing  less,"  said  Jimmy.  "Have  you  not  no- 
ticed that  we  have  been  standing  still  for  some  time?" 

"Have  we?"  exclaimed  Wintergreen  again. 

"Well,  you  must  have  been  thinking  deeply,"  said 
Jimmy,  laughing,  "not  to  have  noticed  that.  I  should 
think  you  are  the  only  one  in  the  train  who  has  n't." 

Every  one  else,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  in  the  corridor. 
There  was  talking  and  commotion  everywhere.  Outside 
and  beyond  everything  there  was  a  panting  sound  as  well, 
as  of  some  great  beast  in  desperate  straits. 

"Listen  to  the  engine,"  said  Jimmy.  "This  kind  of 
accident,  they  say,  only  happens  once  in  a  blue  moon. 
The  driver  at  the  last  station  put  down  his  brake  too 
quickly  and  twisted  the  crank  somehow,  and  now  here 
we  are." 

There  they  were,  indeed,  with  dark  fields  all  round 
them. 

"We  may  be  here  all  night,  they  say,"  Jimmy  added 
airily,  "if  they  can't  get  the  engine  off  the  line." 

Wintergreen  uttered  an  exclamation  of  dismay.  It  is 
sadly  discomposing  to  be  held  up  in  the  middle  of  an 
adventure. 

"You  are  sorry,"  said  her  companion,  watching  her 
face  appreciatively.  "As  for  me,  I  am  glad.  I  am  in 
no  hurry  to  arrive  anywhere." 

"A  happy  state  of  mind,"  said  Wintergreen  grimly. 


94  WINTERGREEN 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Jimmy. 

Then,  as  though  obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  she  came 
and  sat  down  opposite  her  new  acquaintance,  and  the 
two  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  both  interested, 
both  intrigued. 

Wintergreen,  at  the  station,  had  seemed  just  an  old 
country  woman  out  for  the  day  in  garments  she  had 
inherited  from  her  grandmother.  But  this  woman  op- 
posite her,  Jimmy  recognized,  was  something  absolutely 
different.  Her  speech  betrayed  her.  She  was  an  edu- 
cated gentlewoman.  What  in  the  world  was  she  doing 
in  this  guise? 

Meantime  Jimmy  too  was  being  studied. 

"Why  does  she  not  want  to  arrive  anywhere?"  Winter- 
green  was  asking  herself.  "Was  she  saying  good-by  to 
him?" 

"One  never  knows  what  may  happen  next  in  this 
world.  That 's  one  comfort,"  she  said  aloud. 

Jimmy  laughed. 

"Is  it  a  comfort  not  to  know  ?"  she  said. 

"At  the  worst  it 's  a  reprieve,"  said  Wintergreen. 

"You  are  not  encouraging,"  said  Jimmy. 

"I  have  always  found  it  safer  to  expect  the  worst," 
said  Wintergreen. 

"How  do  you  mean  safer?"  said  Jimmy.  "Do  you 
mean  that  you  were  less  often  disappointed?" 

"No,"  said  Wintergreen,  "things  always  turned  out 
better  than  I  expected." 

They  laughed  together  then,  feeling  as  though  they 
had  been  introduced.  And  from  that  moment  until  the 
train  began  to  move  again,  after  untold  efforts,  they 
talked  unceasingly  on  many  subjects.  The  last  was  the 
freedom  and  comfort  with  which  total  strangers  like 


SOME  RAILWAY  ACCIDENTS  95 

themselves,  who  were  about  to  part  for  ever,  could  ex- 
change views  with  one  another. 

"Because  they  have  no  yesterdays  together  to  look 
back  upon,  and  no  to-morrows  together  to  look  forward 
to,"  said  Wintergreen.  "They  have  only  a  space  to  stand 
and  talk  in  for  a  while " 

"With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it,"  con- 
cluded Jimmy. 

When  they  were  going  again,  however,  and  Jimmy  had 
returned  to  her  belongings  and  her  compartment,  she 
wished  that  in  this  instance,  at  least,  she  had  exchanged 
names  and  addresses.  She  even  returned  along  the  cor- 
ridor before  she  left  the  train  in  order  to  repair  the 
omission.  But  she  was  too  late. 


CHAPTER  VI 
In  which  Winter  green  enters  the  Land  of  Promise 

THE  station  of  Cauldstanes  is  the  last  before  Long- 
shaws.  Lighted  by  two  dim  lamps,  and  peopled  by 
only  two  persons,  it  was  by  no  means  an  inviting  destina- 
tion. But  Wintergreen,  glad  to  see  it,  descended  with  great 
satisfaction  upon  the  platform.  Hardly  had  she  done  so 
when  a  timid  voice  accosted  her. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  are  you  Mrs.  Winter- 
green?"  it  said. 

"Wintergreen  is  my  name,"  she  replied.  "I  am  not 
married." 

"Miss  Wintergreen,  then?"  said  the  speaker. 

"There  is  no  need  to  call  me  Miss,"  replied  Winter- 
green.  "I  am  Wintergreen,  the  cook-housekeeper,  if  that 
is  what  you  mean." 

She  spoke  brusquely,  for  she  was  cold  and  tired,  and 
her  questioner,  a  dowdy  woman  in  brown,  roused  involun- 
tary antipathy.  She  was  so  obviously  being  tactful  to  the 
new  domestic. 

"Is  this  my  mistress?"  Wintergreen  groaned  within 
herself. 

But  peering  more  closely  at  her  new  acquaintance,  as 
she  stood  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  giving  directions  about 
the  luggage,  the  new  arrival's  heart  smote  her. 

"This  is  a  good  soul,"  she  said  to  herself.  "She  means 
well,  poor  creature." 

96 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  97 

And  when  she  turned  towards  her  again  she  received 
her  with  more  geniality. 

"Have  I  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mrs.  Adair?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply,  "my  name  is  Fortescue.  But 
Mrs.  Adair  asked  me — that  is,  she  needed — that  is,  I  of- 
ered  to  come  and  meet  you." 

"That  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Wintergreen  as  they 
left  the  station  together,  "and  very  unnecessary,"  she 
added  to  herself  as  she  picked  her  way  over  the  cobble- 
stones. 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  had  a  long  wait,"  she  added 
aloud. 

The  train  had  stood  in  the  fields  two  hours. 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  said  Lydia. 

"Time  is  naught  in  Cauldstanes  apparently,"  said  Win- 
tergreen to  herself. 

A  queer  thrawn  moon  was  looking  down  upon  the  vil- 
lage, and  the  air  was  full  of  the  nearness  of  the  sea.  A 
chill  breeze  met  them  as  they  turned  into  the  High  Street 
that  flipped  up  the  corners  of  Wintergreen's  dolman.  It 
bore  with  it  the  homely  odors  of  wood  burning  and  fish 
frying.  It  seemed  to  be  supper-time.  Not  a  soul  met 
them.  The  street  was  deserted,  though  windows  here, 
there,  and  everywhere  were  aglow  with  lamp  and  firelight. 
In  one — a  chemist's — green  and  red  bottles  gleamed.  In 
another  two  nodding  heads  were  silhouetted  on  a  crim- 
son curtain.  Otherwise  there  was  no  sign  of  life,  and  no 
sound  besides  that  of  their  own  footsteps  and  of  slow 
waves  breaking  on  a  sandy  shore  somewhere  behind  the 
houses.  The  tout  ensemble  pleased  Wintergreen  very  well. 

"A  tranquil  spot,"  she  was  remarking  to  her  companion, 
when  the  lady  in  brown  came  to  a  standstill  and  said : 

"This  is  the  Bow  House." 


98  WINTERGREEN 

Looking  up  then  Wintergreen  became  aware  of  her 
"place,"  standing  withdrawn  from  the  other  houses.  It 
seemed  very  high  and  black  in  the  dim  light.  Only  two 
windows  in  the  top  story  were  illuminated.  Over  the 
door  was  a  fanlight,  and  over  the  gate  a  dusty  gas  lamp, 
which  just  sufficed  to  make  legible  the  name  "Dr.  Adair" 
on  the  plate  beneath  it. 

"I  must  go  now,"  said  Lydia,  nervously.  "I  won't 
come  in.  My  sister  will  be  waiting  supper.  Just  ring  the 
bell  and  go  on  ringing.  They  sometimes  take  some  time 
to  answer  it." 

"Good  night  then,  miss,"  said  Wintergreen  with  a 
return  of  brusqueness.  She  was  anxious  to  get  the  busi- 
ness of  initiation  over.  The  aspect  of  the  place  was  a 
little  daunting.  "Good  night,  and  thanks  very  much," 
she  added. 

With  these  words  she  turned  her  back  upon  her  escort, 
and  opening  the  iron  gate  went  into  the  entrance  court. 

All  this  Lydia  related  to  her  sister  five  minutes  after- 
wards. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Clara,  "that  that  was 
all  the  woman  said?" 

"Every  word,"  said  Lydia.  "She  seemed  to  be  rather 
a  difficult  kind  of  person,  peculiarly  dressed  and  with  a 
very  unsuitable  manner  for  one  in  her  rank  of  life." 

"Well,  Lydia,"  said  Clara,  "you  see  to  what  you  ex- 
pose yourself  by  your  insensate  desire  to  be  obliging.  A 
woman  like  that  should  have  been  allowed  to  find  her 
own  way,  or  at  least  her  own  master  or  mistress  should 
have  met  her.  Her  master,  indeed,  would  thus  have  been 
better  employed  than  he  has  been  otherwise  this  after- 
noon." 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  99 

Lydia  sat  down  hastily  and  nervously  removed  her 
toque. 

"Clara,"  she  said  faintly,  "you  have  heard  something." 

"I  have,"  said  Clara.  "Our  young  Adonis  over  the 
way  was  meeting  a  very  pretty  girl  at  Brakely  Junction 
this  afternoon.  Miss  Pennifeather's  nephew  from  just 
beyond  Brakely  arrived  here  to-night  in  a  motor,  and  he 
saw  them  from  the  road  as  he  was  passing.  Miss  Penni- 
feather  has  just  left.  She  did  not  want  to  worry  her 
brother  about  it,  though  why,  being  a  minister,  he 
shouldn't  be  worried  I  cannot  see,  but  she  came  round 
to  tell  me,  for  of  course  she  guessed  who  the  pretty  girl 
would  be,  and  thought  we  ought  to  know  about  it." 

"Clara,  this  is  terrible!"  exclaimed  Lydia  in  great  dis- 
tress. "At  Brakely?  Oh,  surely  not.  Are  you  quite 
sure  that  it  was  he?" 

"Absolutely,"  said  Clara  with  great  relish.  "Miss  Pen- 
nifeather's nephew  recognized  the  motor  first.  It  was 
standing  on  the  road.  Then  he  saw  the  doctor  on  the 
middle  platform.  There  was  no  mistake  about  it." 

"But  the  girl,"  persisted  Lydia.  "Surely,  Clara,  it 
was  not  she.  Might  the  doctor  not  have  been  merely 
meeting  a  patient — or  having  a  consultation  or  some- 
thing?" 

"That 's  what  Miss  Pennifeather  said,"  replied  Clara, 
"but  all  her  nephew  could  say  was  that  if  the  girl  was  a 
patient  she  did  n't  look  it,  and  if  it  was  a  consultation  it 
was  a  very  jolly  one." 

"This  is  awful,"  said  Lydia.  "And  I  'm  sure  Alice 
knows  nothing — or — well,  perhaps  she  does.  She  looks 
terribly  broken  down  to-day.  Oh, — as  if  she  had  n't 
enough  already  to  bear,  with  Mrs.  Dick  behaving  like  a 


ioo  WINTERGREEN 

maniac  in  the  kitchen,  and  that  dreadful  Mr.  Gardshore, 
who  seems  to  have  taken  a  vow  of  silence,  sitting  up  in 
his  room  locked  in.  Since  morning,  when  the  doctor  saw 
him,  he  has  answered  no  knocks,  though  he  has  no  food 
— Alice  knows — but  four  stale  biscuits  and  a  bottle  of 
water.  And  the  doctor  has  never  been  near  him  again 
either.  He  did  n't  come  home  for  tea." 

"Utterly  regardless,  you  see,"  said  Clara.  "Bewitched, 
beglamored.  It  is  a  sad  business.  All  the  same,  it  is  no 
reason  why  we  should  starve.  Ring  the  bell,  Lydia.  We 
are  already  an  hour  late." 

"But  don't  you  think,"  said  Lydia,  irresolutely,  as  she 
rose  to  obey,  "that — that  I  ought  to  go  over?" 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Clara.  "In  this  matter,  which 
may  end  in  the  courts  yet,  the  less  we  appear  the  better. 
But  console  yourself  with  the  thought  that  Alice  cannot 
possibly  know  anything  of  this  yet,  that  she  will  probably 
be  the  last  in  all  Cauldstanes  to  know  of  it." 

Meantime  Mrs.  Dick,  in  a  state  of  mind  and  body 
better  imagined  than  described,  had  ushered  her  successor 
into  the  Bow  House  and  had  conducted  her  across  the 
hall  into  a  dim  waiting-room. 

Wintergreen,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  hard  horse-hair 
sofa  there,  felt  that  she  had  arrived  at  last.  But  far  from 
that  fact  having  an  exhilarating  effect  upon  her  she  was 
dismayed  to  find  her  heart  sinking  into  her  boots.  The 
appearance  of  her  predecessor  had  been  a  shock,  and  the 
aspect  of  the  apartment  in  which  she  now  found  herself 
was  another.  She  looked  round  it  with  a  frown.  The 
plants  in  the  window  were  in  a  dying  state,  even  those 
miracles  of  endurance,  the  aspidistras.  The  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  had  stopped.  The  magazines  on  the  table 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  101 

made  her  think  of  patients  who  had  waited  there  before 
her  for  all  kinds  of  dreadful  verdicts. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  started  upon  her  adven- 
ture she  felt  indisposed  toward  it.  She  wondered  what 
kind  of  mistress  was  about  to  appear.  Was  Mrs.  Adair 
one  of  those  self-styled  ladies  impossible  to  please,  impos- 
sible to  get  on  with? 

Wintergreen,  though  she  was  prepared  for  almost  any- 
thing, had  made  her  own  reservations.  To  do  her  work 
properly,  she  had  decided,  she  must  have  a  good  deal  of 
her  own  way.  She  must  be  allowed  responsibility,  be 
treated  as  a  rational  human  being,  not  as  a  chattel  without 
sense  or  feeling,  requiring  continual  interference  and 
supervision. 

But  the  person  who  had  opened  the  door  was  of  another 
kidney.  Wintergreen's  experienced  eyes  had  taken  her 
measure  at  a  glance.  Her  appearance  at  that  hour  of 
the  evening,  tattered,  unkempt,  down-at-heel,  had  placed 
her  in  her  own  category  at  once.  She  belonged  to  a 
species  of  domestic  servant  that  the  lady  of  the  Skellicks 
would  not  have  permitted  to  cross  her  doorstep.  And  this 
was  the  woman  she  was  to  succeed  ?  One  who  had  trained 
her  mistress  to  expect  nothing  from  her,  to  do  things  her- 
self if  she  would  have  them  done  decently,  to  be  con- 
tinually on  the  defensive.  One  who  had  lowered  her 
own  status  to  that  of  a  common  swindler  who  obtained 
food  and  lodging  and  payment  under  false  pretenses,  with 
less  will  to  serve,  less  kindliness,  and  less  value  in  a  house 
than  a  terrier  dog. 

Could  she  succeed  such  a  woman  she  asked  herself — 
occupy  the  place  which  she  had  made  for  her  ? 

Her  spirits  had  virtually  touched  bottom  when  the  door 
opened  and  Alice  entered. 


102  WINTERGREEN 

At  sight  of  her,  however,  they  immediately  began  to 
rise. 

"Thank  heaven,"  she  said  to  herself  as  they  exchanged 
the  first  greetings.  Then  concern  for  this  pretty,  sad- 
looking  girl  filled  her  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else. 
There  was  that  about  Alice  which  made  her  think  of 
something  hurt  and  innocent,  something  that  needed  pro- 
tection from  life,  something  surprised,  amazed  at  its 
cruelties,  its  disappointments,  its  disillusionments. 

But  except  for  the  grace  which  accompanies  utter  un- 
selfconsciousness,  the  mistress  of  the  Bow  House  had 
little  attractiveness  that  night.  She  was  very  tired,  not 
having  slept  all  the  night  before,  and  was  in  the  dazed 
state  which  comes  from  prolonged  insomnia.  The  indif- 
ference was  upon  her  which  belongs  to  that  condition. 
Nothing  at  the  moment  seemed  of  any  importance  to  her, 
not  even  the  advent  of  the  new  cook-general  to  which  she 
had  looked  forward  with  such  eagerness.  In  vain  she 
had  tried  to  rouse  herself  to  meet  the  occasion  when  Mrs. 
Dick  had  announced  that  there  was  some  one  to  see  her 
in  the  waiting-room,  to  remind  herself  that  she  must  ask 
questions,  make  things  clear  to  save  trouble  afterwards. 
But  it  had  been  a  long  day  of  little  worries  and  miseries 
with  the  one  great  grief  of  Jack's  defection  beating 
through  everything  like  the  sound  of  the  great  waves  on 
the  shore  beating  through  all  the  petty  sounds  of  the 
village. 

She  could  not  remember,  she  could  not  think,  and  she 
came  into  the  waiting-room  absolutely  at  the  end  of  her 
tether,  hardly  able  to  see  because  of  a  blinding  headache, 
hardly  able  to  speak  to  the  visitor.  All  she  became  aware 
of  at  first  was  that  the  applicant  seemed  to  be  an  old 
woman,  and  if  anything  could  have  disappointed  her  then 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  103 

she  would  have  been  disappointed.  When  it  was  abso- 
lutely essential  that  youth  and  strength  should  come  to  her 
aid,  here  was  some  one  presenting  herself  who  was  prob- 
ably past  her  best,  who  would  always  be  ill  in  some  part 
of  her  body  or  another,  always  more  or  less  off  duty. 

But  as  she  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite  to  her  and 
saw  Wintergreen  more  clearly,  that  first  impression 
changed.  This  woman  was  not  so  elderly  as  she  had 
thought.  It  was  only  her  clothes  that  had  made  her  seem 
so,  and  those  were  so  quaintly  old-fashioned,  when  she 
came  to  look  at  them,  that  they  startled  her  into  paying 
some  attention  to  their  wearer. 

She  saw  then  that  the  bands  of  hair  on  either  side  of 
her  forehead  were  brown  still  without  a  gray  streak ;  that 
the  face,  if  a  little  wrinkled,  was  hale  and  hearty  as  a 
winter  apple;  that  the  teeth  were  not  false,  but  as  white 
and  even  as  if  they  were;  that  the  eyes  were  evidently 
capable,  without  artificial  aid,  of  seeing  as  well  and  prob- 
ably better  than  her  own.  Other  things  were  even  more 
encouraging:  the  comfortable  outlines  of  the  shoulders 
beneath  the  dolman,  the  upright  pose  of  the  sturdy  figure, 
the  impression  of  latent  power  and  capability  that  she 
gave,  the  quiet  voice,  the  unexpectedly  cultivated  speech. 
She  seemed  too  satisfactory  to  be  real,  but  in  her  abject 
weariness  Alice  accepted  her  without  question. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said.  "We  need  a 
good  servant." 

Wintergreen  smiled. 

"You  take  me  on  trust,  then?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Alice.    Then  she  too  smiled  faintly. 

"You  look  good,"  she  added  as  though  in  explanation. 

"I  am  good,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen  gravely.  "Good 
at  my  work,  I  mean,  as  good  as  training  can  make  me. 


104  WINTERGREEN 

Though  I  myself  have  to  say  so,  I  know  I  can  be  useful 
to  you,  and — God  helping  me — I  will.  Do  you  believe 
me?" 

For  a  moment  they  sat  looking  at  each  other  in  silence, 
and  it  came  to  Alice  like  an  inspiration  that  here 
was  not  only  a  cook  but  a  personality,  a  power,  a  god- 
send. Nevertheless,  bitter  experience  made  her  answer 
guarded. 

"I  want  to  believe  you,"  she  said,  rising.  "Now  will 
you  come  and  see  the  kitchen?" 

Her  spirit  quailed,  nevertheless,  as  she  said  it. 

How,  she  wondered,  would  the  kitchen,  long  exposed 
to  the  ravages  of  Mrs.  Dick,  appear  in  the  eyes  of  the 
new-comer?  How  would  Mrs.  Dick  herself  appear? 
Since  the  early  morning  she  had  been  absorbed  in  her 
farewell  cleaning  operations,  accompanied  at  intervals  by 
loud  descriptions  of  her  injured  feelings.  She  had  re- 
sisted all  Alice's  endeavors  to  remove  her  from  the  field 
of  her  labors  before  her  successor  should  appear.  She 
had  moreover  declared  that  however  Alice  might  have 
treated  her,  she  at  least  would  do  her  duty. 

When  Alice  had  last  seen  her  at  nine  in  the  evening 
everything  in  her  domain  had  been  more  at  sixes  and 
sevens  than  it  had  ever  been,  and  she  had  then  announced 
her  intention  of  going  on  till  midnight,  working  overtime 
as  a  reproach  to  her  mistress.  Since  she  had  always 
worked  under-time  before,  this  implied  accusation  seemed 
singularly  unfair  to  Alice,  but,  unable  to  argue  with  a 
woman  occupied  in  dusting  the  bells  amid  a  jangle  of 
hideous  noise,  she  had  come  away  in  despair  and  left  her. 
Now  she  had  not  the  least  idea  what  the  reopening  of  the 
kitchen  door  might  let  loose.  She  felt  as  Daniel's  keepers 
might  have  done  before  ushering  him  into  the  den  of  lions. 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  105 

Sounds  as  of  heavy  furniture  being  pushed  about  came 
to  her  as  she  stood  with  her  new  cook-housekeeper  in 
the  hall. 

"I  'm  afraid  you  won't  find  things  very — comfortable," 
she  said,  hesitating.  "You  see — you  did  not  give  us  much 
notice  of  your  coming,  and  Mrs.  Dick  was  anxious  to 
leave  everything  in  order — and — and — she  has  been  rather 
hurried." 

Wintergreen  was  silent  for  a  moment  listening  to  the 
storm  on  the  other  side  of  the  kitchen  door,  which  had 
now  apparently  taken  the  form  of  an  onslaught  upon  the 
stove.  Oven  doors  were  being  banged,  pokers  and  tongs 
flung  about.  It  amounted  to  nothing  less  than  a  hostile 
demonstration.  But  if  it  was  intended  to  overawe  or 
even  deter  the  new-comer  from  entering,  it  had  the  oppo- 
site effect.  A  warm  color  rose  in  Wintergreen's  cheeks. 
A  new  gleam  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Have  you  given  her  notice,  madam?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Alice.  "I  could  not  have  stood  her 
another  day  in  any  case — whatever  happened." 

"You  cannot  stand  her  now,  madam,  if  you  will  excuse 
my  saying  so,"  said  Wintergreen.  "If  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  trust  me  so  far  you  will  go  to  bed  and  let  me 
deal  with  her." 

Alice  was  so  surprised  that  she  did  not  answer  for  a 
moment.  The  request,  made  in  the  most  deferential  man- 
ner, was  as  startling  as  the  speaker's  clothes.  Would  it 
be  wise,  she  wondered  feebly,  to  allow  this  stranger,  within 
half  an  hour  of  her  arrival,  to  take  command  of  her  situa- 
tion? Yet  to  do  so,  she  realized,  would  mean  relief  un- 
speakable. Every  moment  her  headache  seemed  to  be 
getting  worse. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think "  she  began,  to  save  her  dignity. 


106  WINTERGREEN 

But  then  she  stopped  short,  and  her  silence  said  more 
than  her  speech. 

"As  you  please,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen.  "But  I 
am  accustomed  to  dealing  with  such  people,  and  I  prefer 
to  do  so  alone.  If  you  will  tell  me  what  there  is  still  to 
do  to-night  and  then  leave  me  to  manage  I  shall  esteem  it 
a  very  great  favor." 

The  formality  of  the  wording,  in  contrast  to  the  in- 
formality of  the  demand  that  one  cook-housekeeper  should 
dismiss  another,  suddenly  struck  Alice  as  comical,  and 
she  giggled  weakly. 

"That's  right,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen  encourag- 
ingly. "We  shall  get  on." 

"Indeed,  I  hope  so,"  said  Alice  half  hysterically  and 
tacitly  consenting  to  everything  at  once.  "This  is  the 
dining-room,"  she  went  on,  indicating  the  door  of  it. 
"The  doctor — my  husband — has  not  come  in  for  supper 
yet.  He  may  be  quite  soon  or  he  may  not  be  till  midnight. 
But  everything  is  ready  there.  Only  there  will  be  a  kettle 
to  boil  and  his  cocoa  to  make  when  he  comes  in." 

"I  shall  manage  that,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen  dryly. 
"Is  there  anything  more  to  do  ?" 

Alice  drew  her  hand  across  her  forehead  in  the  effort 
to  remember,  and  remembered  Mr.  Gardshore  shut  up  in 
his  room  with  his  four  stale  biscuits.  But  she  remem- 
bered also  that  he  had  already  that  evening  refused  sup- 
per. To  inquire  again  whether  he  wanted  anything  might 
cause  a  disagreeable  scene,  which  might  make  a  bad  im- 
pression upon  this  new-comer  whom  she  wished  to  con- 
ciliate. On  the  other  hand,  if  left  alone  there  would  more 
than  likely  be  no  sign  of  him  till  morning.  She  decided, 
therefore,  to  commit  him  to  the  care  of  Providence,  and 
to  say  nothing  about  him  that  night. 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  107 

"No,"  she  said,  "there  is  nothing  more  to  do,  except 
that  any  message  must  be  noted  and  delivered  directly 
the  doctor  comes  in,  and — oh,  yes — your  room  may  not 
be  ready,  though  I  gave  things  out  this  morning  to  Mrs. 
Dick." 

Afterward  she  could  not  recollect  having  given  any 
more  directions.  All  that  she  did  remember  was  the  new 
cook  helping  her  upstairs,  preparing  the  bed  for  her, 
drawing  the  window  curtains,  and  tucking  her  up  gently 
but  firmly  before  she  left  her. 

What  happened  immediately  afterward  in  the  kitchen 
will  never  be  really  known.  All  that  Wintergreen  said 
of  it  next  morning  to  her  mistress  was  that  she  had  had 
no  difficulty.  Mrs.  Dick's  report  was  that  the  new  cook 
was  the  impidentest  bizzum  that  she  had  ever  set  eyes 
upon,  and  that,  if  she  liked  to  take  the  trouble,  she  could 
quite  easy  have  the  law  of  her. 

Certain  it  is  that  when  the  mad  clock  on  the  stairs  struck 
twelve  molto  prestissimo  agitato  the  eviction  of  Mrs.  Dick 
was  an  accomplished  fact,  and  the  new  cook-general  was 
sitting  down  to  a  meal  a  conqueror.  Hardly  had  she 
swallowed  a  mouthful,  however,  before  one  of  the  newly 
cleaned  row  of  bells,  which  that  afternoon  had  drowned 
poor  Alice's  arguments,  pealed  loudly  and  suddenly  be- 
hind her.  Unused  to  being  at  the  kitchen  end  of  the  wire 
she  started  to  her  feet  in  a  spasm  of  alarm,  but  a  moment 
later  she  had  recovered  herself  in  time  to  see  which  bell 
had  made  the  disturbance.  It  was  still  moving,  and  the 
name  under  it  was  dining-room. 

"Dining-room  ?"  she  exclaimed  to  herself.  "But  there 's 
no  one  there." 

Then  it  occurred  to  her  with  a  shock  that  the  doctor 
must  have  come  in  without  her  hearing  him. 


io8  WINTERGREEN 

She  hastened  therefore  to  answer  the  summons,  but  on 
the  threshold  of  the  dining-room  she  came  to  an  abrupt 
standstill. 

Good  heavens!    Was  this  the  doctor? 

He  stood  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  ghastly, 
cadaverous,  with  long  matted  hair  and  tragic  eyes,  his 
hands  thrust  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  loose  jacket, 
staring  straight  before  him  in  mournful  reverie. 

"You  rang,  sir?"  she  said. 

He  started  and  looked  up.  Then  he  stood  up  straight 
as  though  galvanized  by  surprise.  And  well  he  might  be. 
Aladdin  polishing  his  dingy  lamp  for  the  first  time  could 
not  have  expected  less  the  apparition  of  the  genie.  In- 
stead of  the  ferocious  Mrs.  Dick,  the  futile  Alice,  whom 
he  had  summoned,  there  stood  Wintergreen  sturdily  in 
the  doorway  in  her  quaint  black  garments  and  snowy 
linen.  On  her  head  she  now  wore  an  old-fashioned  black 
cap,  underneath  which  the  smooth  brown  hair,  parted 
exactly  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead,  framed  the  plain 
kindly  face  with  its  shrewd  gray  eyes,  its  long  humorous 
upper  lip. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  exclaimed  like  a  frightened  infant. 

It  was  not  the  appearance  of  the  stranger  that  distressed 
him.  It  was  her  appearance  at  that  particular  moment, 
disturbing  his  calculations,  throwing  him  off  his  balance, 
when  he  had  no  time  or  energy  left  to  adapt  himself  to 
new  conditions.  There  was  resentment  in  his  sudden 
cry. 

"He  is  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous  crash,"  said  Winter- 
green  to  herself. 

Aloud  she  said: 

"I  am  the  new  cook-housekeeper,  sir." 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  109 

"The  new  cook-housekeeper?"  he  exclaimed.  "Has 
Mrs.  Dick  left?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  where,  in  heaven's  name,  is  your  mistress?"  he 
demanded. 

"Mrs.  Adair  has  gone  to  bed,  sir,"  she  replied. 

"To  bed  ?"  he  ejaculated.  "How  like  her  that  is !  To 
leave  her  house  in  charge  of  a  total  stranger!  I  might 
have  known  it — to-night  of  all  nights !" 

He  stamped  his  foot  in  impotent  frenzy,  and  the  sud- 
den action  recalled  Wintergreen  to  herself,  and  to  many 
a  similar  scene  of  old  with  the  laird  her  father.  It  gave 
her  confidence.  She  had  been  here  before. 

"Whatever  he  does,  he  is  not  going  to  bully  his  wife," 
she  resolved. 

"I  may  be  a  total  stranger,  sir,  but  I  'm  not  a  total 
fool,"  she  replied  aloud.  "If  there  is  anything  you  wish, 
I  am  here  to  get  it  for  you.  But  it  is  no  part  of  my  duty 
to  stand  and  listen  to  aspersions  upon  my  mistress." 

Again  he  stared  at  her  as  though  transfixed,  but  this 
time  for  a  different  reason.  This  was  a  strange  successor 
indeed  to  Mrs.  Dick.  In  speech  and  bearing  she  might 
have  been  a  grand-duchess. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  he  felt  inclined  to  ask  again. 

But  instead  he  said  with  an  attempt  at  calmness : 

"Excuse  my  irritability.  I  am  not  well.  Can  you  get 
some  coffee  that  is  not  treacle  or  diluted  ink — real  cof- 
fee— black  and  scalding — and  bring  it  up  to  my  sitting- 
room  on  the  top  flat?" 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen  eagerly,  and  with 
compunction  for  her  former  little  attack. 

"It  was  kicking  him  when  he  was  down,"  she  said  to 


i  io  WINTERGREEN 

herself,  as  she  returned  to  her  kitchen.  "He  is  in  some 
great  trouble,  poor  creature,  and  a  sad  advertisement  for 
himself." 

The  supposed  doctor  meanwhile  had  returned  to  his 
own  place  and  had  seated  himself  at  the  writing-table  in 
front  of  a  pile  of  manuscript.  Since  the  day  before  it 
had  been  accumulating.  Every  hour  he  had  added  a  few 
lines  or  a  few  sheets,  and  now  the  journal  which  the 
professor  had  asked  for  was  all  but  complete.  All  that 
remained  to  be  written  now  was  the  last  note  after  he 
had  swallowed  the  lethal  draft.  There  would  be  time 
enough  for  that  before  it  took  effect,  and  for  closing  and 
sealing  the  stamped  and  directed  envelope.  He  was  sure 
of  that.  He  knew  that. 

But  as  he  laid  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  ready  to  receive 
his  last  words,  he  experienced  no  more  the  same  light- 
ness of  heart  which  had  been  his  when  he  had  first  defi- 
nitely made  up  his  mind  to  "go  over  the  top."  Since 
morning  a  great  awe  of  what  was  coming  had  over- 
shadowed him,  and  now,  with  a  sudden  shock,  he  realized 
that  his  courage  had  died  before  him.  He  found  that  he 
was  afraid,  unexpectedly,  desperately  afraid.  With  his 
hand  already  on  the  latch  he  shrank  from  opening  the 
door  into  the  unknown.  He  was  paralyzed — caught  be- 
tween the  fear  of  death  and  the  fear  of  life. 

He  was  still  resolved,  still  determined.  The  will  in 
which  he  had  left  everything  to  Jack  was  in  his  desk 
all  signed  and  ready.  His  reason  demanded  that  he 
should  no  longer  cumber  the  earth.  His  fear  of  life  was 
infinitely  greater  than  his  fear  of  death.  Yet  he  had  not 
before  realized  what  it  would  be  to  die  in  cold  blood, 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  in 

by  his  own  hand,  by  lifting  a  cup  to  his  mouth.  By  that 
simple  ordinary  every-day  act.  It  made  the  whole  thing 
horrible  somehow.  He  longed  for  some  murderer,  some 
executioner  to  send  him  forth. 

He  remembered,  however,  even  in  the  depths  of  his 
distress,  that  this  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  known 
fear.  Though  no  one  had  suspected  it  he  had  been  often 
afraid.  He  had  often  had  to  fight  his  own  cowardice 
before  he  fought  the  enemy.  And  there  were  ways. 
He  must  do  something  till  that  woman  brought  up  the 
coffee.  Surely  she  was  taking  an  unconscionable  time. 
It  was  this  waiting,  this  hanging  fire  that  was  upsetting 
him.  If  he  could  have  taken  the  powder  in  water;  but 
no,  the  directions  were  explicit.  He  would  disregard 
them  at  the  risk"  of  failing  altogether  in  his  purpose,  and 
failure  now  would  be  intolerable. 

He  took  the  packet  of  powder  from  its  little  drawer. 
Then  going  over  to  the  mantelpiece  he  stood  looking  at 
it  for  a  moment  before,  with  trembling  fingers,  he  laid  it 
in  front  of  the  clock. 

"Past  twelve,"  he  noted  as  he  did  so,  and  then  went 
back  to  his  manuscript  to  record  this.  Then  it  occurred 
to  him  that  to  go  on  writing  might  steady  his  nerves  as 
it  had  often  done  before  now.  He  sat  down  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  his  teeth  chattering.  But  he  held  on 
to  his  pen. 

"Past  midnight,"  he  wrote.  "Everything  is  now  in 
readiness.  I  now  only  await  the  strong  hot  black  coffee 
in  which  the  powder  is  to  be  taken.  A  horror  of  great 
darkness  has  come  over  me  which  I  did  not  expect,  and  it 
is  very  disconcerting.  I  try  to  think  it  is  merely  the  re- 
sult of  starvation.  I  have  eaten  nothing  all  day.  But 


ii2  WINTERGREEN 

I  do  not  close  my  eyes  to  the  possibility  that  it  may  be 
the  shadow  of  some  awful  destiny  falling  upon  me  from 
beyond  the  bourn." 

Here  he  paused  for  a  moment,  drawing  a  long  breath. 

His  self-prescribed  remedy  had  already  taken  effect. 
It  seemed  to  him  now  as  he  sat  there,  that  another  pres- 
ence was  with  him,  that  of  the  man  to  whom  he  was 
writing.  He  was  no  longer  solitary.  He  had  an  audi- 
ence, intent  upon  what  he  was  about  to  do,  keenly  inter- 
ested, expectant,  one  who  regarded  him,  not  as  a  body 
on  the  verge  of  dissolution,  but  as  a  spirit  about  to  take 
flight,  an  explorer  about  to  add  his  contribution  to  the 
records  of  human  experience. 

Instinctively  he  responded  to  the  expectation.  He 
dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink  again. 

"But  no  matter,"  he  resumed,  "I  care  not.  I  go.  I 
fling  myself  rejoicing  over  the  edge  of  doom — defy- 
ing  " 

Here  he  paused  again  to  listen  intently.  Drops  of 
perspiration  began  to  glisten  on  his  forehead.  Some 
memory  of  former  days,  when  God  had  been  in  his 
heaven,  came  to  him,  and  he  muttered  a  few  words  of 
prayer.  Yes,  he  had  not  been  mistaken.  Footsteps  were 
coming  up  the  staircase. 

"Now,"  he  said  aloud  to  himself.    "Now  be  steady." 

It  seemed  to  him  as  he  spoke  as  though  he  were  ad- 
juring some  one  else,  some  one  struggling  fiercely  to 
escape  him. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  suddenly  he  felt 
deadly  sick. 

"Come  in,"  he  managed  to  say  nevertheless. 

When  Wintergreen  entered  he  was  standing  at  the 
mantelpiece  with  his  back  turned  toward  her. 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  113 

"Put  it  down  on  the  table,"  he  said  in  a  strange  thick 
voice  which  he  hardly  recognized  as  his  own,  "and  then 
go  away,  please.  I  shall  need  nothing  more." 

As  he  spoke  he  swayed  and  caught  at  the  mantelpiece 
to  steady  himself.  All  had  become  suddenly  black  before 
his  eyes;  the  clock,  the  little  white  packet  of  powder, 
everything  had  vanished  for  a  moment.  Then  as  they 
gradually  returned  to  view,  a  voice  which  seemed  to  come 
from  an  immense  distance  said: 

"I  'm  sorry,  sir,  there  's  no  coffee  in  the  house." 

Wintergreen  had  expected  an  outburst  of  some  kind, 
but  not  the  silence  which  followed  her  announcement 
and  lasted  so  long  that  she  thought  he  had  not  heard 
her. 

"There 's  no  coffee  in  the  house,  sir,"  she  repeated. 
"I  've  searched  every  cupboard  downstairs  from  top  to 
bottom.  And  I  've  been  outside  in  the  street  too.  But 
the  shops  are  all  shut.  You  see  it 's  very  late.  I  'm  very 
sorry,  sir,  but  I  can't  get  any  to-night." 

Still  he  did  not  speak,  and  she  saw  with  alarm  that  he 
was  clinging  to  the  mantelpiece. 

"But  there  are  other  things,  sir,"  she  went  on  anx- 
iously. He  looked  so  strange — so  still — so  rigid.  "I 
could  get  you  cocoa,  or  oxo,  or  ovaltine " 

Then  to  her  horror  he  began  to  laugh,  rocking  to  and 
fro  where  he  stood. 

"Well  done  the  Great  Ones!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  kind 
of  shriek.  "Well  done !  Scored  again !  Cocoa,  oxo,  or 
ovaltine !" 

"He 's  mad,"  said  Wintergreen  to  herself. 

She  came  in,  nevertheless,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 

"There 's  no  use  wakening  his  wife,  anyhow,"  she  re- 


H4  WINTERGREEN 

fleeted.  "Poor  soul,  she  '11  wake  soon  enough.  Poor 
soul,  poor  little  soul!" 

She  stood  and  waited  until,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  be- 
gun, his  wild  laughter  ceased,  and  he  flung  himself  down, 
a  heap  of  misery,  in  a  big  armchair  which  was  standing 
beside  the  fireplace.  Then,  wiping  his  eyes,  he  looked 
up  and  saw  her. 

"Are  you  still  here?"  he  said,  frowning  darkly  at  her. 

There  was  not  only  resentment  but  aversion  in  his 
voice  this  time. 

She  ignored  both. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  said.  "I  waited  to  see  if  you  would  n't 
let  me  bring  you  up  something  to  eat.  You  've  been  work- 
ing too  hard,  sir,  and  I  'm  sure  you  want  it." 

"Working  too  hard !"  he  exclaimed  bitterly.  "Work- 
ing too  hard!  Woman,  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about." 

"Perhaps  not,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen,  "but  I  do  know 
how  to  make  a  supper,  and  I  'm  going  downstairs  now 
to  toss  you  up  a  nice  omelet." 

With  these  words,  and  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she 
left  him,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  listened  to  her  going 
downstairs,  pictured  her  in  the  kitchen  going  about  her 
business,  pictured,  finally,  the  omelet,  and  realized  that 
he  was  ravenous.  At  the  same  time,  like  one  who  has 
passed  through  a  great  physical  crisis,  he  felt  strangely, 
uncannily  at  ease  and  comfortable,  conscious  of  probable 
agonies  to  come,  but  too  tired,  too  exhausted  to  be  any- 
thing but  indifferent  to  them.  Without  retrospection, 
without  speculation,  almost  without  thought,  he  lay  in  the 
great  chair  with  his  head  flung  back  and  his  wild  eyes 
closed,  in  the  abandonment  of  prostration. 

So  Wintergreen  found  him  when  she  returned. 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  115 

He  heard  her  come  in,  but,  fearing  that  she  would  speak 
to  him  should  he  show  signs  of  life,  he  remained  as  he 
was.  Through  half-closed  lids,  however,  he  kept  watch 
languidly  as  she  made  her  preparations.  And,  indeed,  it 
was  a  treat  to  watch  her.  She  was  so  deft,  so  neat.  The 
little  meal  she  set  out  for  him  was  so  daintily  perfect. 
It  was  in  its  own  way  a  work  of  art. 

It  was  a  work  of  magic  as  well.  It  conjured  up  old 
scenes — prehistoric  memories  of  days  when  he  was  re- 
covering from  the  measles,  when  there  was  not  even 
Jimmy  in  the  world.  Again  he  was  a  small  boy  watching 
nursery  tea  being  laid.  He  felt  foolishly  happy,  idiotically 
content. 

But  though  he  showed  no  outward  sign  of  conscious- 
ness, Wintergreen,  by  some  occult  means,  must  have 
known  that  he  was  aware  and  awake.  She  did  not  even 
announce  to  him  that  his  meal  was  ready,  but,  softly 
opening  and  closing  the  door,  she  went  away  again  down- 
stairs. 

She  was  glad  to  go  too.  She  was  very  tired.  It  had 
been  a  long  day  for  her.  She  was  thankful  it  had  come 
to  an  end. 

As  she  thought  of  her  first  impression  of  Cauldstanes 
on  her  arrival  she  smiled  grimly.  She  remembered  having 
remarked  that  it  was  a  tranquil  spot. 

Well,  after  all,  she  reflected,  tranquillity  is  not  every- 
thing, and  at  fifty  a  woman  could  still  dispense  with  it. 
But  for  to-day  she  had  had  enough  excitement.  Now 
that  the  wretched  doctor — how  that  man  had  laughed! 
— was  disposed  of  for  the  night,  she  must  lose  no  time 
in  getting  to  bed.  Otherwise  how  would  it  be  possible 
for  her  to  wake  at  five,  as  wake  she  should  and  must  ? 

With  this  thought  in  her  mind  she  had  just  reached  the 


ii6  WINTERGREEN 

bottom  of  the  stair  when,  to  her  intense  astonishment,  a 
latch-key  rattled  in  the  front  door  lock. 

"Who  in  the  name  of  goodness  is  this  next?"  she 
exclaimed  to  herself.  "Do  the  patients  come  in  with 
latch-keys  ?" 

Next  moment  the  door  opened  and  some  one  did  come 
in — calmly  too,  as  though  the  place  belonged  to  him. 
Then  the  light  fell  on  his  face,  and  with  amazement  she 
recognized  the  other  honeymooner  from  the  Brakely  Junc- 
tion. She  stood  for  a  moment  petrified.  But  remember- 
ing her  duty  as  guardian  of  the  premises  she  then  ad- 
vanced towards  the  newcomer.  As  she  did  so  with  a 
firm  step  he  turned  and  saw  her.  His  handsome  face 
changed  visibly  at  the  sight. 

"Hullo!"  he  said  faintly,  and  then  relapsed  into  speech- 
lessness. 

But  his  embarrassment  cured  hers,  except  as  to  what 
was  now  her  duty  with  regard  to  the  man  upstairs.  Could 
she  say  he  was  not  at  home?  He  certainly  was  unfit  to 
see  any  one — even  a  visitor. 

"Have  you  come  to  see  the  doctor,  sir?"  she  began. 

Again  his  expression  changed  from  something  like 
consternation  to  something  like  indignation. 

"The  doctor  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "But  I  'm  the  doctor 
myself !" 

"You?"  ejaculated  Wintergreen  before  she  could  stop 
herself. 

This  the  doctor !  This  handsome  youth !  This  squire 
of  dames !  This  honeymooner !  So  he  was  already  mar- 
ried? .  .  . 

But  in  a  moment  she  had  recovered. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  she  said.  "I  had  no  idea.  I 
have  just  arrived." 


THE  LAND  OF  PROMISE  117 

Jack  too  had  recovered. 

"Yes — from  Brakely,  didn't  you?"  he  said  pleasantly. 
"I  hope  you  had  a  comfortable  journey.  Can  I  have 
my  supper  now?" 

"Certainly,  sir,"  she  answered. 


CHAPTER  VII 

In  which  the  Land  of  Promise  becomes  aware  of  its 
New  Inmate 

WHEN  Wintergreen  left  the  room  Jack  returned  to 
the  fireplace  and  said  something  rather  vehement 
under  his  breath.  Then  lifting  an  unoffending  cigarette- 
box  from  the  mantelpiece  he  clapped  it  down  again  vin- 
dictively. After  which,  thrusting  his  hands  deep  into 
his  pockets,  he  stood  gazing  into  the  fire,  whistling  softly 
to  himself  until  Wintergreen  returned.  Even  then  he 
made  no  movement  until  she  spoke. 

"Your  supper  is  ready,  sir,"  she  said.  "Will  that 
be  all  for  to-night?" 

He  turned  then  and  appeared  to  regard  the  table. 

"Yes,  that 's  all,"  he  said.  "You  may  go  to  bed.  Good 
night." 

"Good  night,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen. 

Next  moment  the  door  had  closed  behind  her.  But 
not  behind  the  thought  of  her. 

"This  is  the  devil,"  said  Jack  to  himself. 

His  appetite  for  the  moment  had  been  effectually  taken 
away  by  the  apparition  of  the  old  darling  from  Brakely. 
He  wished  that  he  could  have  found  it  consistent  with 
his  dignity  to  ask  her  to  say  nothing  of  his  meeting  with 
her  to  Alice.  But  this  of  course  was  impossible,  not 
only  on  account  of  his  dignity,  but  because  of  the  sus- 

n* 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  119 

picion  of  the  clandestine  character  of  his  meeting  with 
Jimmy  which  such  a  request  would  inevitably  arouse 
— if  it  were  not  already  present. 

He  tried  to  place  himself  in  the  position  of  the  old  dar- 
ling. What  was  her  name,  by  the  way?  He  had  for- 
gotten, and  also  had  forgotten  to  ask  what  it  was — an- 
other suspicious  circumstance  probably  in  the  estimation 
of  his  judge.  That  she  was  judging  him  now  he  had  no 
manner  of  doubt.  And  how  would  she  be  judging  him? 
When  he  had  first  seen  her  she  had  had  the  benignant 
look  in  her  eyes  which  elderly  women  accord  to  ex- 
uberant young  lovers.  He  had  noted  this  at  the  time 
with  some  amusement  and  a  little  annoyance.  Now  at 
the  remembrance  of  it  he  felt  only  the  latter.  Her  eyes 
now  seemed  very  different — cold,  critical,  gray  eyes. 
Eyes  like  those  of  the  old  women  at  Alimara.  What  a 
confounded  fool  he  had  been  to  go  to  Brakely.  He  might 
have  known  some  old  woman  would  see  him,  though  of 
course  it  was  a  piece  of  incredible  bad  luck  that  it  should 
be  this  particular  old  woman.  All  depended  now  upon 
whether  she  would  be  too  little  interested  in  their  former 
meeting  to  mention  it  to  her  new  mistress,  before  Jimmy 
had  made  her  acquaintance,  and  things  had  righted  them- 
selves. Would  she  mention  it  or  would  she  not?  He 
wished  now  that,  instead  of  turning  his  back  upon  her 
when  she  came  in  with  the  supper,  he  had  taken  the 
opportunity  of  looking  at  her,  of  reading  perhaps  the 
thoughts  that  were  lurking  behind  that  calm  exterior. 
All  he  could  do  now  was  to  remember  as  well  as  he 
could  how  he  had  comported  himself  at  Brakely,  how 
he  must  have  appeared  there,  how  he  must  appear  now 
to  her  in  her  new  character. 

He  remembered  with  uneasiness  that  he  had  been  tre- 


120  WINTERGREEN 

mendously  glad  to  see  Jimmy;  gladder  than  he  had  ex- 
pected to  be,  glad  and  moved  at  the  same  time.  She 
had  brought  back  so  vividly  the  memory  of  the  Great 
Interlude,  the  romance,  the  wonder,  the  color  of  Ali- 
mara.  She  had  seemed  to  him  for  the  moment  to  be  the 
embodiment  of  it  all  alighting  in  the  midst  of  the  familiar 
grayness  and  somberness.  He  had  walked  by  her  side 
along  the  platform  with  the  dim  fields  on  either  side, 
feeling  as  though  he  were  back  in  the  East  again  amid 
the  glow  and  the  glamour.  For  some  minutes  at  the  be- 
ginning he  had  forgotten  that  there  were  such  things 
as  spectators,  critics,  old  cats,  in  the  world.  Ass,  idiot, 
that  he  had  been!  And  now  this  old  woman  in  his 
kitchen  would  be  thinking  things.  And  on  the  morrow 
she  would  be  saying  things  too,  very  likely.  At  all  events 
it  would  be  tempting  Providence  to  act  on  the  assump- 
tion that  she  would  not.  If  his  behavior  at  Brakely 
had  aroused  untoward  thoughts,  either  he  would  have  the 
humiliation  of  knowing  that  his  cook-housekeeper  by  her 
silence  shared  or  thought  she  shared  a  secret  with  him, 
or  he  would  have  the  annoyance  and  misery  of  having 
Alice  told  of  the  Brakely  incident  by  another  than  himself. 

Troubled  by  these  thoughts  he  pushed  back  his  chair 
in  disgust,  and  was  sitting  down  to  the  fire  once  more  to 
brood  over  a  cigarette,  when  he  suddenly  remembered 
that  since  lunch-time  that  day  he  had  never  been  near 
his  patient  on  the  top  flat.  At  that  time  Gardshore  had 
refused  both  lunch  and  company.  His  door  had  been 
locked,  and  he  had  politely  but  firmly  refused  to  see  him. 
That  was,  he  reflected  with  self-reproach,  more  than 
twelve  hours  ago,  and  since  then  he  had  had  no  report. 
He  must  go  up  at  once. 

Alice,  it  seemed,  had  gone  to  bed.     He  had  not  ex- 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  121 

pected  to  see  her  and  had  not  asked  for  her.  Her  an- 
noyance with  him  was  quite  enough  to  account  for  her 
leaving  his  supper  in  charge  of  the  new  cook.  Had  she 
not  already  that  day  left  him  to  breakfast  alone  ?  He  had 
a  slight  access  of  bitterness  as  he  passed  her  closed  door 
on  his  way  upstairs,  and  this  mood  engendered  another 
before  he  reached  the  top  landing.  The  new  mood  was 
one  of  indignation  at  himself  for  allowing  gossip  to  in- 
fluence him  so  far  as  to  make  him  afraid  of  his  own 
cook-housekeeper.  Nay  more — so  far  as  to  have  made 
him  think  of  meeting  Jimmy  at  Brakely  instead  of  at 
Longshaws.  As  he  mounted  the  stairs,  guided  by  the 
streak  of  light  under  Gardshore's  door  ahead  of  him, 
he  realized  for  the  first  time  that  in  pandering  to  busy- 
bodies  he  had  taken  one  of  those  false  steps  apparently 
unimportant  but  very  difficult  to  retrace,  and  that  he 
had  taken  it  because  even  he  had  been  misled,  even  he 
had  been  brought  to  think  strange  things  of  Jimmy's 
friendship.  He  had  been  disloyal  to  her  in  thought,  and 
this  dilemma  now  served  him  right. 

The  one  thing  he  could  do  now  was  to  be  perfectly 
open  about  the  whole  Brakely  affair,  to  take  it  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  that  he  should  have  wished  to  meet  and 
render  assistance  to  the  traveler  on  her  way,  to  her  who 
had  assisted  him,  chaperoned  him,  instructed  him  when 
he  had  been  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.  Why  should  he 
not?  He  was  sorry  now  that,  instead  of  seeing  her  into 
the  train  merely,  he  had  not  motored  her  from  Brakely 
to  Longshaws,  and  delivered  her  in  style  to  Mrs.  Ruth- 
erford. Then  his  position  would  at  once  have  been  made 
plain.  He  cursed  himself  once  more  for  his  stupidity. 
At  the  same  time  he  knocked  on  Gardshore's  door.  Well 
anyhow,  he  resolved,  there  should  be  no  more  conceal- 


122  WINTERGREEN 

ment,  no  shadow  of  clandestine  understanding  about  his 
relations  with  Jimmy  now.  Not  only  Alice  but  every  one 
who  came  along  should  know  everything  if  they  cared 
to  know.  Anything  would  be  better  than  sharing  secrets 
with  the  new  servant. 

As  he  knocked  at  Gardshore's  door  he  decided  to  begin 
with  him.  He  would  have  to  make  an  excuse  for  his 
lateness  anyhow. 

"Come  in,"  said  Gardshore. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Jack,  entering.  "Or  rather  good 
morning.  Are  you  not  going  to  bed  to-night  ?" 

"No,"  said  Gardshore  from  the  depths  of  his  big  chair. 
"At  least  I  don't  think  so." 

"I  hope  you  have  n't  been  waiting  up  for  me,"  said 
Jack.  "I  am  sorry  I  am  so  late,  but  I  was  meeting  a 
friend  at  Brakely  Junction,  a  Miss  Carmyle  who  has  just 
arrived  from  India,  and  is  on  her  way  to  stay  with  the 
Rutherfords  at  Longshaws." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  at  the  close  of  this 
speech.  Then  Gardshore's  voice  came  hoarsely  from  the 
depths  of  his  big  chair. 

"What  name  did  you  say?"  he  asked. 

"Miss  Carmyle,"  said  Jack.  "She  was  the  niece  of  the 
commissioner  at  Alimara  where  I  was.  And,"  he  con- 
tinued, warming  to  his  subject  and  urged  on  by  the 
relief  of  being  perfectly  open  at  last,  "she  was  a  de- 
lightful person.  We  all  called  her  Jimmy  and  the  name 
just  suited  her.  She  was  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend 
to  me,  and  it  was  mainly  through  her  that,  out  of  work- 
hours,  I  had  the  splendid  time  I  had  there.  She  showed 
me  India  both  outside  and  inside.  You  've  no  idea  what 
a  boon  she  was.  And  when  I  heard  that  she  was  com- 
ing to  stay  in  our  neighborhood,  naturally " 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  123 

"Oh,  naturally,"  said  Gardshore. 

He  had  not  moved,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
tone  of  his  voice  that  Jack  did  not  quite  like.  He  re- 
viled himself  again  for  his  over  sensitiveness,  but  there 
it  was. 

"Is  her  uncle  with  her?"  said  Gardshore  next. 

"No,"  said  Jack.  "The  fact  is,  her  uncle  is  rather 
annoyed  with  her  at  present.  She  had  been  engaged  for 
some  time  to  be  married  to  a  man,  Dawson,  high  up  in  the 
civil  service — a  deputy  commissioner  in  fact — and  two 
days  before  the  wedding  she  threw  him  over." 

"Oh,  really?"  said  Gardshore.  "I  wonder  why  she 
did  that?" 

Again  the  tone  of  voice  was  almost  offensive. 

Decidedly  Gardshore  was  in  a  difficult  mood.  The 
only  thing  to  do  now,  however,  seemed  to  be  to  go  on. 

Otherwise,  who  knew  but  that  Gardshore  also Jack 

was  sorry  now  he  had  begun  with  him,  morbid,  brood- 
ing invalid  as  he  was.  It  had  been  another  false  step 
evidently.  Was  he  never  to  be  done  with  false  steps? 

"Who  can  tell?"  he  said  nevertheless  as  casually  as 
he  could.  "But  I  gathered  from  her  letter " 

"Ah,  so  you  corresponded?"  said  Gardshore  softly, 
and  again  in  that  beastly  tone. 

"We  have  exchanged  I  think  one  letter  and  one  post- 
card," said  Jack,  flushing  in  spite  of  himself. 

He  was  angry  now.  After  all  what  business  was  it 
of  Gardshore's  if  Jimmy  and  he  did  correspond? 

"Oh,  indeed;  a  letter  and  a  post-card?"  said  Gard- 
shore. "And  what  reason  did  she  give  you  for  her 
change  of  mind?" 

"None  except  that  she  had  never  cared  for  Dawson," 
said  Jack.  "But  after  all,  of  course,  that's  nobody's 


124  WINTERGREEN 

business.     All  the  same  everybody  in  Alimara  is  down 
on  her  for  doing  it." 

"Really?"  said  Gardshore  again. 

"And  so  she  decided  to  leave  them  all,"  said  Jack. 

"And  come  to  Cauldstanes — ah,  no — the  Rutherfords 
of  course,"  said  Gardshore.  "Very  interesting.  And  so 
you  met  her  ?  But  why  Brakely  ?  It 's  a  long  way  off, 
is  n't  it  ?  Why  not  Longshaws  ?" 

"It  suited  better,"  said  Jack,  flushing  again  in  spite 
of  himself.  "But  I  should  n't  have  bored  you  with  all 
this  to-night,  only  I  wanted  to  explain 

"Thank  you,  I  quite  understand,"  said  Gardshore 
cryptically. 

After  that  he  became  so  monosyllabic  that  Jack  felt  con- 
strained to  leave  him. 

"Confound  him,"  he  said  as  he  went  down  to  the 
floor  beneath. 

His  first  experiment  in  expansiveness  had  not  been 
encouraging.  It  had  disinclined  him  for  further  experi- 
ments that  night.  Besides,  he  was  dead  beat.  He  made 
up  his  mind  to  snatch  some  repose  at  least  before  his 
next  effort. 

But  this  was  not  to  be.  Hardly  had  he  entered  the 
bedroom  and  struck  a  match  when  Alice  sat  up  in  her 
bed.  Since  morning  her  mood  had  changed.  The  long 
dreary  day  of  alienation,  the  first  in  all  their  life  to- 
gether, had  brought  her  to  the  pass  of  forgiving  and 
forgetting  everything,  or,  if  not  exactly  that,  of  at  least 
pretending  that  she  had  forgiven  and  forgotten.  She 
had  had  a  sound  sleep  when  Jack  came  in  and  woke 
her,  and  was  in  a  saner  state  of  mind  than  she  had  been 
in  for  two  days.  It  had  probably  been  her  own  fault, 
she  reflected,  that  Jack  had  not  told  her  about  Miss  Car- 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  125 

myle  of  his  own  accord.  She  had  been  terribly  cross, 
and  he  had  very  likely  been  silent  in  order  to  spare  her 
further  worry  over  the  entertainment  of  this  stranger. 
She  always  made  such  a  fuss.  Poor  old  Jack!  She 
had  been  a  little  fool  and  had  deserved  to  be  miserable. 
After  all,  what  cause  had  he  ever  given  her  to  distrust 
him?  He  had  been  quite  right  too  not  to  justify  himself. 
Her  suspicion  had  been  an  insult.  Oh,  what  a  fool  she 
had  been!  In  the  first  flush  of  her  repentance  she  had 
all  but  sprung  out  of  bed  and  run  downstairs  to  say  all 
this  to  him  when  she  heard  him  come  up  and  pass  the 
door  of  her  room  on  his  way  up  to  Gardshore's. 

"He  is  in  no  hurry  to-night,"  she  reflected  with  self- 
reproach  as  she  remembered  how,  as  a  rule,  he  ran 
upstairs  two  steps  at  a  time  to  her. 

The  murmur  of  voices  in  the  room  above  seemed  as 
though  it  would  never  cease,  but  at  last  she  heard  Jack 
once  more  descending.  A  moment  later  he  entered  the 
room,  and  the  match  he  had  struck  was  illuminating  his 
tired,  rather  sulky  face. 

"On,  Jack,"  she  exclaimed  eagerly  and  holding  out 
her  arms  to  him,  "I  'm  so  sorry  I  vexed  you  this  morn- 
ing. I  was  a  little  b — beast  to  you.  Can  you  ever  forgive 
me?" 

It  was  a  question  which,  because  of  its  significance 
and  because  of  the  manner  in  which  it  was  put,  should 
have  been  answered  instantaneously,  with  enthusiasm, 
with  abandonment.  It  was  unfortunate,  dramatically 
speaking,  that  Jack,  having  the  lighted  match  already 
in  his  hand,  had  to  light  the  gas  first.  He  wished  vaguely 
as  he  did  so  that  Alice  had  not  begun  her  little  outburst 
before  he  had  accomplished  this.  But  this  was  not  the 
worst.  He  wished  at  that  moment  that  she  had  not  be- 


126  WINTERGREEN 

gun  at  all,  but  had  remained,  as  she  had  done  that  morn- 
ing, with  her  face  turned  to  the  wall.  He  was  tired.  He 
was  stupid.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  another  crisis.  And 
now,  of  course,  here  was  another  confronting  him.  In 
order  not  to  obtain  reconciliation  under  false  pretenses 
it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  tell  Alice  about  Jimmy 
now,  and  not  to  wait  until  to-morrow  as  he  had  intended. 

"Oh,  damn  it!"  he  muttered  to  the  gas. 

But  there  was  nothing  for  it.  There  was  Alice  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  her  arms  outstretched  towards  him. 

"Forgive  you?"  he  exclaimed  aloud  with  what  eager- 
ness he  could  muster.  "You  know  I  can,  darling." 

But  his  tone  sounded  unconvincing  even  to  himself. 
He  came  and  sat  down,  however,  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
and  she  threw  herself  on  his  breast. 

"It  must  be  now  or  never,"  he  said  to  himself  even 
as  he  returned  her  caresses.  But  she  gave  him  no  time. 

"O  Jack,"  she  exclaimed,  nestling  her  head  against 
his  shoulder,  "I  have  been  so  miserable  all  day  without 
you.  It  seemed  worse  than  when  you  were  away  in 
India.  O  Jack,  if  we  were  really  estranged  I  could 
not  bear  it.  Could  you?" 

She  sobbed  passionately  at  the  mere  thought.  What 
could  he  do  but  comfort  her? 

"I  '11  tell  her  in  a  minute  though,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"I  must." 

But  still  she  gave  him  no  chance.  To  begin  about 
Jimmy  now  in  the  midst  of  this  emotion  seemed  impos- 
sible. He  felt  that  he  must  wait. 

"It  could  never  be,  could  it,  Jack?"  she  urged,  cling- 
ing more  closely  to  him.  "You  are  not  angry  with  me 
now,  are  you?  Nothing  could  ever  separate  us.  No 
one  could — could  they?" 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  127 

Now  at  least  he  could  answer  freely. 

"No,  no,  darling;  of  course  not,"  he  murmured,  with 
responding  passion. 

And  then,  having  for  the  moment  passed  the  point 
beyond  which  words  are  unnecessary,  he  sat  holding  her 
in  silence,  his  lips  pressed  to  hers. 

And  surely  then  all  would  have  been  well,  he  would 
have  told  her  everything,  talked  everything  out  with  her, 
made  her  understand,  had  not  at  that  moment  of  mo- 
ments the  telephone  bell  cut  across  the  silence.  It  seemed 
to  Alice  like  the  voice  of  some  mocking  fiend  breaking 
in  now  upon  her  joy  as  it  had  broken  in  the  night  be- 
fore upon  her  misery. 

"O  Jack — don't — please  don't  go,"  she  implored  him. 

"My  dear,  I  must,"  he  said  as  the  bell  rang  again 
urgently,  vociferously,  making  all  the  night  hideous. 
"I  must,  but  it  may  be  nothing." 

He  hurried  from  the  room. 

It  was  not  "nothing."  It  was  death,  imminent,  per- 
haps immediate,  miles  away  over  rough  roads.  Even 
now  with  all  the  haste  he  could  make  he  might  not  be 
in  time. 

Alice,  listening  upstairs,  heard  him  dash  into  the  con- 
sulting-room, dash  out  again,  bang  the  front  door,  and 
then  make  for  the  garage  behind  the  house.  A  few 
moments  later  the  motor  grunted  out  into  the  street,  and 
then,  gaining  speed  as  it  went,  whirred  away  into  the 
distance. 

Meanwhile  Jack,  besides  being  the  sport  of  circum- 
stance, was  being  made  also  the  subject  of  analysis.  A 
few  minutes  after  he  left  his  room  Gardshore  had  left 
his  big  chair  with  wonderful  agility  considering  his  for- 


128  WINTERGREEN 

mer  limp  state  and  had  seated  himself  once  more  at  his 
writing-desk.  There  he  wrote  furiously  for  some  minutes 
describing  the  scene  between  himself  and  Jack,  re- 
lating all  that  Jack  had  said  and  what  he  had  said  in 
answer. 

Then  more  slowly  he  began  to  comment  upon  it. 

"He  evidently  has  no  idea  what  this  means  himself," 
he  wrote.  "For  a  really  handsome  youth  he  seems  to  be 
singular  unconversant  with  the  ways  of  women.  And 
she  is  so  clever — la  belle  dame  sans  merci — that  she  could 
take  in  the  devil.  The  point  for  me  now,  however,  is 
that  she  is  about  to  make  a  fool  of  my  good  Adair,  if  she 
has  not  already  done  so.  I  am  certain  of  this,  and  the 
certainty — strange  to  say — has  for  the  moment  cured  me. 
For  the  first  time  since  it  happened  I  rejoice  now  that 
my  plan  was  thwarted,  that  I  am  still  in  the  land  of  the 
living  to  stand  between  my  lady  and  her  intention,  that  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  I  have  the  power  still  of  leaving 
my  lake  where  the  withered  reeds  are,  and  no  birds 
sing,  to  protect  the  new  knight-at-arms,  about  to  be 
entangled,  I  see,  in  the  toils  of  the  enchantress ;  to  protect 
not  only  himself  but  his  pretty  silly  little  wife  who  di- 
rectly and  indirectly  has  made  me  so  very  uncomfortable ; 
to  heap  coals  of  fire  upon  my  hostess's  head,  and  keep, 
if  I  can,  her  husband  for  her. 

"Well  done  destiny  again — or  whatever  angels  or 
fiends  may  have  been  concerned.  After  all,  they  must 
have  had  some  concern,  some  foresight  in  the  matter. 
But  for  their  intervention  to  prevent  Mrs.  Adair  and 
Mrs.  Dick  having  the  sense  to  provide  the  house  with 
coffee  I  should  have  been  dead  and  useless. 

"Now  instead  of  dying  I  can  go  to  sleep  with  a  fu- 
ture— insignificant  perhaps,  but  yet  a  distinct  future 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  129 

once  more  before  me  on  this  earth,  my  business  being 
to  do  some  thwarting  myself  instead  of  being  for  ever 
thwarted.  And  in  the  doing  of  it  I  may  see  Jimmy. 
Yes,  I  need  not  deny  it  to  you,  professor,  there  is  new 
life  in  the  thought.  Even  after  all  that  has  happened! 
I  could  not  have  believed  it  of  myself.  Abject  fool! 
Yet  I  cannot  help  it.  Even  to  write  her  name  is  ex- 
hilarating. Jimmy  Carmyle.  And  she  is  still  Jimmy  Car- 
myle.  Strange — how  I  rejoice  at  that. 

"Witch !  So  you  are  coming  into  my  life  again,  step- 
ping into  it  unawares  on  your  way  to  pastures  new,  in 
your  old  light-hearted,  cruel  fashion — crossing  it,  tread- 
ing upon  it  as  you  would  tread  upon  a  flower  you  had 
once  worn. 

"But  now  I  meet  you  with  a  great  ally  at  my  back. 
Death  who  has  made  everything  different,  everything 
possible,  stands  awaiting  my  pleasure.  We  shall  see, 
Jimmy,  who  is  to  win  this  time — you  or  I.  Au  revoir, 
Jimmy  Carmyle !" 

He  read  this  over,  stared  at  it  for  a  few  moments,  then 
seizing  the  manuscript — "Sentimental  tosh !"  he  ejacu- 
lated, and,  tearing  it  across  and  across,  he  flung  it  into 
the  wastepaper-basket. 

After  that  for  a  long  time  he  stood  at  the  window,  gaz- 
ing at  the  sinking  moon,  and  listening  to  the  waves,  now 
far  distant,  for  the  tide  was  out. 

Then  he  went  to  bed. 

Half  an  hour  before  this  Wintergreen  had  retired  up 
the  narrow  stair  at  the  other  end  of  the  house  to  her 
attic-bedroom.  From  its  high  dormer-window  she  could 
have  seen  the  moon  too.  But  she  did  not  so  much  as 
glance  at  it. 


130  WINTERGREEN 

"If  I  don't  go  to  bed,"  she  reminded  herself,  "I  shall 
never  be  able  to  get  up." 

If  she  thought  she  would  go  to  sleep,  however,  when 
she  got  into  bed  she  must  have  been  disappointed. 

In  vain  she  drew  the  bed-clothes  over  her  ears  to 
shut  out  the  sound  of  the  waves.  In  vain  she  tried  to 
think  of  fields  of  waving  corn,  or  sheep,  one  by  one, 
coming  through  turnstiles.  The  thought  of  her  unhappy 
young  mistress,  and  of  the  radiant  squire  of  dames 
honeymooning  with  another  woman  gave  her  no  peace. 
In  vain  she  tried  to  put  the  whole  thing  behind  her,  to 
assure  herself  that  it  was  all  no  business  of  hers.  She 
could  not  help  thinking  that,  unexpected  as  it  was,  it 
was  undoubtedly  her  business. 

"And  the  sooner  you  get  used  to  that  thought  the 
better,"  she  admonished  herself. 

It  was  as  though  a  traveler  who  had  only  known  a 
country  by  the  map  of  it  had  found  himself  in  the  midst 
of  it  surrounded  by  grass  ten  feet  high  and  infested  by 
the  larger  quadrupeds.  It  was  no  wonder  that  the  ad- 
venturess who  had  selected  a  field  of  action  which  she 
had  supposed  to  be  free  from  the  major  responsibilities 
was  disconcerted  to  find,  now  that  she  was  actually  there, 
that  it  was  nothing  of  the  sort. 

She  felt  that  some  adjustment  of  her  mental  attitude 
was  still  necessary  though  it  had  been  changing  of  itself 
ever  since  the  first  appearance  of  Alice.  There  had  been 
something  in  her  which  had  aroused  the  new  cook's  pro- 
tectiveness,  and  Wintergreen's  sympathy,  though  it  was 
half  contemptuous,  was  very  genuine.  It  had  given 
power  to  her  tongue  when  she  was  dealing  with  Mrs. 
Dick  and  had  added  irresistible  force  to  her  address  of 
dismissal.  The  tenderness  with  which  she  had  tucked 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  131 

her  mistress  into  bed  had  been  transformed  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  persecutor  into  cold  ferocity. 

As  she  now  lay  thinking,  however,  she  almost  envied 
Mrs.  Dick  her  obtuseness,  her  indifference,  her  escape 
from  the  coil  of  other  people's  circumstances.  The  prob- 
lem which  she  had  already  tackled,  she  realized,  might 
be  as  nothing  to  the  problem  of  the  beautiful  young 
stranger.  She  could  not  be  ordered  off  like  Mrs.  Dick. 
For  one  thing  she  was  not  there  to  be  ordered.  Nor  was 
she  likely  to  be,  Wintergreen  reflected,  thinking  of  books 
she  had  read  about  unhappy  love-affairs.  One  of  the 
parties  always  went  away.  And  naturally  in  this  case  it 
would  be  the  odd  woman  who  would  have  to  go.  That 
she  had  to  do  with  an  unhappy  love-affair  Wintergreen 
had  no  manner  of  doubt.  Had  the  girl  not  as  much  as 
said  so  ?  No  young  woman  in  her  seven  senses  otherwise 
would  not  want  to  arrive  anywhere.  And  how  beautiful 
she  was !  Might  not  even  the  memory  of  her  be  a 
danger  in  the  household  ?  The  more  Wintergreen  thought 
of  the  fascinating  intruder,  and  compared  her  with  Alice 
as  she  had  been  that  evening,  the  more  the  protective 
instinct  arose  within  her.  But  along  with  it  came  an- 
other thought  which  complicated  it.  Her  sympathy 
seemed  to  be  strangely  divided  between  Alice  and  the 
intruder.  She  was  bound,  of  course,  to  protect  Alice, 
but  wild  things  appeal  always  to  plain  sensible  women. 
And  there  had  been  something  about  Jimmy  in  the  rail- 
way-carriage, something  sad  and  yet  devil-may-care, 
which  appealed  to  her  very  strongly.  She  would  never 
be  able  to  forget  her.  But  what  about  her  young  mas- 
ter? 

When  she  had  seen  him  at  the  station  she  had  known 
nothing  of  the  existence  of  Alice.  Now  in  the  light  of 


132  WINTERGREEN 

discovery  she  saw  more  in  the  meeting  with  the  beautiful 
young  stranger  than  had  at  first  appeared,  more  even, 
she  realized,  than  might  have  appeared  to  the  man 
himself. 

He  had  been  very  happy  there  at  the  station,  very 
glad,  very  eager.  His  welcome  had  been  very  genuine. 
The  intruder  had  been  very  lovely  in  her  evident  pleas- 
ure at  meeting  him.  And  that  wife  of  his  upstairs — 

At  this  point  she  suddenly  fell  asleep,  to  dream  that 
she  was  walking  down  an  interminable  platform  with  a 
train  starting  at  the  far  end  of  it,  and  a  strong  breeze 
against  her. 

It  seemed  hardly  five  minutes  before  the  whirring  of 
the  alarm-clock,  ^Thich  she  had  placed  on  a  table  within 
two  feet  of  her  left  ear,  announced  to  her  that  it  was 
five  in  the  morning. 

"If  you  think  about  it  you  '11  never  get  up,"  she  ad- 
monished herself. 

She  did  not  think  about  it  therefore,  and  she  did  get 
up.  As  a  consequence,  by  the  time  it  came  to  her  prede- 
cessor's usual  rising-time,  she  had  done  a  considerable 
stroke  of  work.  The  brasses  outside  had  been  polished 
till  they  shone  like  fine  gold,  the  lamp  over  the  gateway 
had  been  washed  and  burnished,  the  door-step  had  been 
changed  from  the  semblance  of  a  tombstone  moldering 
in  a  churchyard  to  a  patch  of  snowy  whiteness.  The 
dining-room  also  had  been  swept  and  dusted.  A  fire 
crackled  on  the  hearth.  The  break  fast- table  was  set, 
kettles  were  boiling.  Eggs  were  ready  to  poach  when- 
ever the  powers  above  should  give  the  word. 

But  while  Wintergreen,  in  her  morning  wrapper  and 
a  dust-colored  head-dress  which  permitted  no  hair  at  all 
to  appear,  was  seated  at  her  own  breakfast  in  the  kitchen, 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  133 

her  name  and  fame  were  already  passing  from  mouth 
to  mouth  through  Cauldstanes. 

Some  fishermen  had  been  the  first  to  hear  of  them 
when  they  returned  with  the  morning  tide  and  found 
their  wives  all  full  of  the  great  news  that  Jane  Dick — 
Roarin'  Jane,  as  she  was  called  in  the  village — had  been 
expelled  from  the  Bow  House  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
She  had  returned  to  her  own  house  in  a  towering  rage 
only  to  find  it  locked  up,  and  her  husband,  who  was  a 
railway-man,  out  on  a  night  shift.  She  had  had  to  ob- 
tain the  key,  therefore,  from  the  house  next  door,  and 
in  doing  so  had  awakened  the  neighborhood  with  the 
declamation  of  her  grievances.  Some  were  rejoiced  at 
her  discomfiture,  some  were  sympathetic',  but  all  agreed 
that  the  new  cook-housekeeper,  Wintergreen,  must  be  a 
mettle  woman.  No  one  before,  not  excluding  her  own 
husband,  had  ever  been  known  to  counter  Jane  success- 
fully. She  had  always  carried  all  before  her.  Her  down- 
fall before  a  stranger  was  nothing  less  than  sensational. 

When  Wintergreen  about  six  o'clock  was  observed  to 
have  started  her  morning's  work,  many  an  eye  was  di- 
rected to  the  Bow  House,  many  a  tongue  wagged  about 
her. 

At  half-past  six  a  broad,  stout,  smooth-faced  man  of 
forty,  in  corduroys  and  leggings  and  shirt-sleeves  and 
smoking  a  cutty  pipe,  came  along  from  the  far  end  of  the' 
street  in  a  leisurely  and  reflective  manner.  It  was  Alex- 
ander Dunn,  the  chauffeur,  whose  duty  for  weeks  past 
it  had  been  to  awaken  Mrs.  Dick. 

But  this  morning  he  was  hailed  by  a  little  crowd  of 
women  who  had  gathered  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  McAllister 
the  grocer's  shop  almost  opposite  the  Bow  House. 

"Hey,   Alexander!"   said   Mrs.   McAllister  herself,  a 


i34  WINTERGREEN 

burly  woman  with  a  cod  face  who  was  the  center  of  the 
group.  "Ye  're  no'  needit  the  day.  Roarin'  Jane 's  no' 
there.  She 's  awa'.  She  was  pit  oot  last  nicht.' 

Alexander,  though  he  was  a  driver  of  skill  and  could 
manoeuver  a  motor  as  quickly  as  any  man,  was,  in  the 
adjustment  of  his  own  brain-mechanism  to  new  develop- 
ments, always  rather  deliberate.  He  came  to  a  standstill 
on  this  occasion,  and  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
regarded  his  interlocutor  without  speaking. 

"He  disna  believe  ye,  Mistress  McAllister,"  said  a 
voice. 

"Aweel,  believe 't  or  no,  it's  the  case,"  said  Mrs. 
McAllister. 

"Wha  pit  her  oot?"  said  Alexander. 

"The  new  cook,"  said  a  dozen  voices. 

"The  new  what?"  said  Alexander,  unable  to  believe 
his  ears. 

And  then  the  chorus  burst  out. 

"The  new  cook — an'  her  name  's  Wintergreen." 

"But  she 's  no'  that  green  neither.  She 's  up  to  a 
thing  or  twa!" 

"She 's  up  to  Jane  Dick  onyway." 

"My !    Jane  was  in  a  bonny  rage !" 

"Ye  could  ha'  heard  her  doon  at  the  end  o'  the  long 
pier." 

"The  Lord  help  her  man  when  he  comes  hame  f  rae  the 
nicht  shift.  Little  does  he  ken  what 's  awaitin'  him." 

"Ay— puir  Dave " 

Here  Alexander's  big,  fat,  rather  hoarse  voice  boomed 
in  like  a  trombone  silencing  the  shrill  clamor. 

"An'  d'  ye  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  said,  "that  since  I  was 
there  last  nicht  a  new  cook  's  come  to  the  Bow  House  that 
was  able  to  pit  oot  Jane  Dick?" 


ITS  NEW  INMATE  135 

There  was  a  chorus  of  assent  and  the  clamor  recom- 
menced. 

But  Alexander  held  up  his  hand  for  silence. 

"That 's  a'  I  want  to  ken,"  he  said  crushingly,  and 
replacing  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  he  went  on  his  way. 

They  were  most  of  them  still  there,  however,  though 
some  time  had  elapsed  when  he  reappeared  with  a  slightly 
self-conscious  air.  To  their  great  surprise  he  came 
straight  toward  them.  The  crowd  parted  to  let  him  pass 
and  then  closed  in  behind,  while  McAllister,  seeing  that 
he  came  now  in  the  character  of  a  customer,  hastily  took 
her  place  behind  the  counter. 

"Ha'  ye  ony  coffee-beans?"  he  said. 

"Coffee  what?"  said  Mrs.  McAllister. 

"Coffee-beans,  woman,"  said  Alexander.  "Ha'  ye 
never  heard  o'  coffee-beans?" 

"I  rd  heard  o'  them  afore  you  were  born,"  retorted 
Mrs.  McAllister,  "but  I  never  keep  them.  I  've  never 
had  nae  troke  wi'  the  beans.  Plain  coffee  's  aye  done  for 
me  an'  my  customers." 

"An'  you  pretendin'  to  keep  a  grocer's  shope!"  ex- 
claimed Alexander.  "An'  no'  a  coffee-bean  in  the  place. 
I  wonder  ye  dinna  think  shame." 

"Alexander  Dunn!"  retorted  Mrs.  McAllister  in  high 
dudgeon,  "I'll  thank  ye  to  let  me  keep  my  shope  mysel' ! 
Naebody  askit  ye  to  come  inside  it,  an'  naebody  '11  be 
sorry  when  ye  gang  oot  o'  't." 

At  this  crisis  another  voice  intervened. 

It  was  Kate  Dow  from  the  manse,  who  on  account  of 
long  service  had  a  totally  undeserved  reputation  for  being 
a  household  treasure.  She  had  been  out  for  the  milk 
and,  as  she  had  always  done  in  spite  of  all  protests,  had 
lingered  by  the  way. 


136  WINTERGREEN 

"I  ken  what  ye  mean,"  she  said  to  Alexander.  "Mr. 
Pennifeather  aye  has  them.  He  gets  them  frae  Dundee. 
He  roasts  them  and  grinds  them  up  in  a  wee  machine, 
an'  drinks  them  in  het  watter  to  keep  him  frae  sleepin' 
at  his  sermons." 

"He  would  be  better  to  gi'e  them  to  his  congregation," 
said  another  voice. 

But  no  one  listened,  for  Alexander  was  again  speaking. 

"Aweel,  Kate,"  he  said.  "Ye  '11  ha'  to  gi'e  me  a  len' 
o'  a  pickle  the  day  till  we  get  some  frae  some  ither 
place  whaur  they  understand  aboot  groceries." 

"Come  on  then !"  said  Kate.  "I  kenn  whaur  they  're 
keepit !" 

"Richt !"  said  Alexander.  "I  'm  no'  gaun  back  withoot 
them." 

The  two  moved  off  then  in  the  direction  of  the  manse, 
and  instantly  the  chorus  broke  forth  again. 

"Heard  ever  onybody  the  like  o'  that?" 

"An'  him  that  would  never  dae  a  haund's  turn  to  help 
Jane!" 

"An'  noo  to  please  this — what-ye-may-call-her — he 
would  rifle  the  very  manse." 

"Ay,  she  's  fairly  got  to  the  north  o'  Alexander." 

"She  maun  be  an  awfie  woman." 

"Ye  '11  ha'  to  get  in  some  coffee-beans,  Mistress  Mc- 
Allister, an'  look  slippy  aboot  it,  afore  she  tak's  her  cus- 
tom ither-where." 

"No'  me,"  said  Mrs.  McAllister  contemptuously.  "I  've 
mair  to  dae  than  to  get  in  sic  trash!  I  wouldna  file  my 
coonter  wi'  them !  Her  an'  her  coffee-beans !" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Which  begins  within  a  Sick-room  and  ends  among 
Sea-pinks 

IT  is  strange  how  tangled  are  the  threads  of  existence, 
so  that  the  lives  of  strangers  react  upon  each  other, 
and  the  fate  of  one  whose  very  name  is  unknown  to  them 
becomes  of  infinite  importance  to  that  of  others.  If 
Jack's  patient  had  died  before  he  reached  him,  as  Jack 
expected  he  would,  or  if  he  had  been  less  near  dying  that 
night,  much  that  happened  afterward  would  never  have 
happened.  As  it  was,  the  patient,  being  a  man  as  his 
wife  said  who  never  did  nothing  like  other  people,  re- 
mained on  the  edge  of  death,  so  near  that  from  time  to 
time  he  hovered  over  it,  but  morning  found  him  still  liv- 
ing, still  on  the  hither  side.  It  found  Jack  too  still  watch- 
ing by  his  bed,  or  nominally  so,  for  he  had  been  asleep 
for  about  an  hour.  About  five,  however,  he  woke  with 
a  start,  found  his  patient  much  better,  and  decided  to 
depart.  This  he  was  the  more  anxious  to  do  because  of 
the  interruption  of  the  night  before.  Now  he  must  lose 
no  time  in  telling  Alice  of  Jimmy's  arrival.  In  her  new 
mood  she  would  be  able  to  receive  the  news  as  it  ought 
to  be  received,  and  they  could  arrange  at  the  same  time 
to  call  together  at  Longshaws.  With  his  mind  full  of  this 
scheme  he  went  down  the  stairs  of  the  little  farm-house 
where  he  had  been  all  night  and  gave  the  mistress  his 
good  news,  adding  that  now  the  patient  was  out  of  danger 


138  WINTERGREEN 

for  the  present  he  would  take  his  leave.  But  this  was 
more  easily  said  than  done. 

"Eh,  no,  doctor!"  exclaimed  the  patient's  wife  as 
loudly  as  circumstances  permitted.  "Yer  breakfast 's  jist 
gettin'  ready.  Ye  '11  never  gang  noo  withoot  it.  An'  I 
was  jist  wonderin'.  Ye  see  my  eldest  dochter  's  no'  get- 
tin'  on  wi'  her  man,  an'  noo  that  her  f  eyther  's  laid  up 
an'  no'  to  be  worried,  what  ye  would  advise  aboot  it, 
doctor  ?" 

"Am  I  a  lawyer  that  I  should  be  asked  to  do  this  thing," 
said  poor  Jack  to  himself.  But  the  smell  of  bacon  fry- 
ing was  alluring.  His  client  too  was  a  good  soul  and 
one  of  his  stanchest  friends.  Nearly  another  hour  passed 
therefore  before  he  left  for  home. 

Clear  cold  sunlight  was  struggling  through  a  veil  of 
mist  lighting  up  the  fields  in  patches  and  touching  the 
distant  calm  gray  sea.  All  was  still  save  for  birds  twit- 
tering in  the  hedges  and  here  and  there  in  farm  steadings 
cocks  crowing  in  the  day.  The  motor  moving  almost 
noiselessly  did  not  disturb  the  silence.  Everything  seemed 
dreamlike  to  Jack  and  he  himself  part  of  the  dream.  It 
was  a  pleasant  dream  too.  He  was  proud  of  his  night's 
work.  Grateful  words  of  appreciation  and  thanks  still 
rang  agreeably  in  his  ears.  He  was  glad  also  to  think 
of  Alice's  change  of  attitude.  Things  yesterday  had  been 
very  miserable.  Now  they  would  be  different.  With  his 
mind  full  of  these  thoughts  he  turned  from  the  farm 
road  into  the  highroad,  which  leads  past  Longshaws  to 
Cauldstanes.  From  this  point  he  could  look  down  on 
the  latter,  a  huddle  of  gray  and  red  roofs  so  near  to  the 
edge  of  the  sea  that  they  seemed  as  though  they  had 
been  left  there  by  the  tide.  He  could  distinguish  the  Bow 
House  dark  and  solid  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  the 


WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  139 

thought  of  Alice  there  awake  perhaps  and  waiting  for 
him  was  absorbing  him  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  when 
he  was  hailed  by  a  well-known  voice  and,  to  his  aston- 
ishment, almost  to  his  dismay,  he  beheld  Jimmy  on  the 
road  in  front  of  him. 

She  had  just  emerged  from  the  gates  of  Longshaws. 
A  great  mass  of  vivid  green  foliage  was  behind  her.  She 
wore  no  hat.  Her  hair  glowed  in  the  sunshine.  She 
seemed  the  embodiment  of  youth  and  summer. 

"Oh,  how  perfectly  ripping!"  she  exclaimed  as  he 
pulled  up  beside  her.  "I  could  n't  sleep  a  wink  last  night, 
and  after  five  I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer.  So  I  've 
just  come  in  the  nick  of  time.  Are  you  going  home 
now?  Will  you  take  me  with  you?  I  could  see  Alice 
for  a  minute  and  easily  be  back  for  breakfast." 

"Oh,  that's  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  Jack.  Then 
he  hesitated  and  was  lost.  "But  I  'm  afraid,"  he  went 
on,  "that  Alice  won't  be  up  yet." 

"Won't  be  ready  to  receive  you  either  in  mind  or  body," 
he  might  have  added. 

"Oh,  won't  she?"  said  Jimmy.  "But  of  course  I 
forgot  it  was  very  early,  and  as  you  said,  this  is  n't  Ali- 
mara." 

She  laughed. 

"Well,  some  other  time  then,"  she  added. 

And  she  stepped  back  to  let  him  pass  on  his  way  alone. 

But  strangely  enough  this  little  action  of  dismissal 
which  should  have  set  him  free  held  him  rooted  to  the 
spot. 

There  had  been  disappointment,  even  a  tinge  of  pique, 
in  her  tone  and  in  the  little  laugh  with  which  she  had 
accompanied  the  allusion  to  Alimara.  The  word  Alimara 
too  was  one  to  conjure  with.  It  made  him  feel  that  his 


140  WINTERGREEN 

own  manner  had  been  cold  to  the  point  of  rudeness.  He 
was  behaving  like  a  self-conscious  idiot,  a  henpecked 
husband,  a  feeble  fool.  From  Jimmy's  point  of  view  he 
must  seem  to  be  all  these  things  and  a  bounder  into  the 
bargain.  It  was  insufferable. 

"Jimmy,"  he  said  suddenly,  "it 's  not  too  early  for  a 
spin  anyhow.  Will  you  come  along  and  let  me  show 
you  things?" 

"Rather !"  she  replied. 

In  two  minutes  she  was  seated  beside  him  with  his  rug 
wrapped  round  her,  his  scarf  over  her  hair. 

"Now  let  her  go  for  all  she  is  worth,  Jack!  she  com- 
manded. "I  want  some  air.  At  Longshaws  I  have  been 
breathing  cobwebs." 

So  he  let  her  go.  And  no  sooner  had  they  started 
than  once  more  he  was  under  the  spell,  not  only  of  the 
witchery  of  her  presence,  but  of  the  memories  she  con- 
jured up.  The  smell  of  wood-smoke  in  the  air  was 
transformed  into  the  scent  of  camp-fires,  the  thin  fog 
from  the  cold  gray  sea  was  changed  into  the  morning 
mist  of  India,  a  dark  line  of  woodland  became  the  edge 
of  the  jungle,  the  gray  road  between  the  hedges  a  red 
road  between  red-stemmed  mango-trees. 

No  wonder  he  forgot  to  look  at  the  time  and  went 
very  much  further  than  he  had  intended,  while  Jimmy 
talked  and  asked  a  hundred  questions,  and  relieved  her 
mind  of  the  cobwebs  of  Longshaws. 

"Mr.  Rutherford  is  a  dear,"  she  said.  "He  is  kindness 
itself,  and  makes  life  with  Mrs.  R.  possible.  But  Mrs. 
— well,  the  less  said  about  her  the  better.  Of  course  one 
must  remember  that  she  had  that  letter  from  Alimara. 
But  somehow  she  always  has  a  demoralizing  effect  upon 
me.  She  disposes  me  to  evil.  It 's  a  pity,  is  n't  it  ?  A 


•  WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  141 

Miss  Fortescue — a  cousin,  I  believe — is  coming  to-day 
to  lunch  from  Cauldstanes.  Do  you  know  her?" 

Jack  groaned. 

"Do  I  know  her?"  he  said.     "For  heaven's  sake " 

Then  he  stopped  short,  realizing  how  futile  it  was 
to  impose  restrictions.  Precautions  so  far  had  only  made 
things  worse. 

"For  heaven's  sake  what  ?"  said  Jimmy. 

"Just  say  whatever  you  like  to  her,"  he  said  recklessly. 

"I  mean  to,"  said  Jimmy,  and  then  they  dismissed 
the  subject. 

Only  after  she  had  disappeared  up  the  drive  to  Long- 
shaws  again  did  it  occur  to  Jack  to  look  at  his  wrist- 
watch. 

It  was  half-past  nine. 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  and  made  like  the  wind 
for  Cauldstanes. 

Wintergreen  stili  attired  en  matinee  with  the  addition 
of  wash-leather  gloves  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"Is  your  mistress  down?"  he  said  breathlessly. 

"Oh  yes,  sir,"  she  said.     "But  she  's  just  gone  out." 

"Out?"  he  exclaimed  blankly. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen.  "She  told  me  to  tell 
you  that  she  'd  be  back  in  a  minute.  And  there  are  some 
people  in  the  waiting-room,  sir." 

"Very  well,"  said  Jack.  "Let  me  know  when  she  comes 
in." 

He  went  then  and  saw  the  patients  who  were  waiting 
for  him.  Afterwards  he  mounted  to  the  top  flat  to  see 
Gardshore.  To  his  surprise,  however,  he  found  both 
the  rooms  there  vacant. 

"Have  you  seen  Mr.  Gardshore?"  he  said  with  some 


142  WINTERGREEN 

anxiety  to  Wintergreen,  whom  he  found  sweeping  down 
the  staircase. 

"Mr.  Gardshore  is  in  the  kitchen,  sir,"  said  Winter- 
gren  gravely;  "he  offered  to  assist  to  clean  the  silver." 

"Gardshore — cleaning  silver?"  exclaimed  Jack.  "But 
that's  impossible.  I  cannot  allow " 

"It 's  not  for  you  he  is  doing  it,  sir,"  said  Winter- 
green.  "If  you  will  pardon  my  saying  so,  it  is  for  me. 
And  if  you  will  look  into  the  kitchen,  you  will  see  it  is 
doing  him  no  harm.  Look  in,  sir,  as  you  pass.  Alex- 
ander is  helping  too." 

She  resumed  her  sweeping,  and  Jack  hurried  down- 
stairs again.  Then  opening  the  kitchen  door  he  stood 
transfixed  on  the  threshold.  With  his  broad  back  toward 
him  sat  Alexander  scouring  a  large  fish-slice  and  breath- 
ing heavily  upon  it  at  intervals.  Opposite  him  sat  Gard- 
shore in  a  pink  mist  of  plate-powder,  brushing  at  a  tea- 
pot as  though  his  life  depended  upon  it. 

Apparently  they  were  in  the  midst  of  a  discussion 
too. 

"Ay,"  said  Alexander,  looking  critically  at  his  fish- 
slice as  he  spoke.  "Ye  can  aye  tell  whether  or  no.  Either 
it 's  silver  or  it 's  no'  silver.  An'  it 's  my  belief  she  's 
the  genuine  article." 

"She  is  that,"  said  Gardshore,  without  pausing  in  his 
brushing.  "She  's  as  fine  as  they  make~'em,  like  this  old 
teapot  here.  She 's  Queen  Anne  and  no  mistake.  I 
say !  Look  what  a  shine  I  'm  getting !" 

He  held  up  his  work  for  admiration,  but  Alexander, 
absorbed  in  his  subject,  took  no  notice. 

"The  genuine  article,"  he  repeated.  "If  there  was 
more  like  her  in  the  kitchens  o'  this  country  we  'd  a'  ken 
a  big  difference." 


WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  143 

He  dumped  his  fish-slice  on  the  table  in  his  enthusiasm. 

"Hear,  hear!"  said  Gardshore. 

"Schools  or  nae  schools !"  said  Alexander. 

"No,  you  old  barbarian,"  said  Gardshore.  "It  is  edu- 
cation that  has  made  this  woman.  Without  it  she  would 
have  been  merely  a  common  or  garden  cook.  With  it 
she  is  a  super-cook." 

"Ye  're  richt,  sir,"  said  Alexander. 

Alice  like  Jack  that  morning  had  been  the  sport  of 
her  generous  instincts.  Kindly  feeling  in  the  first  in- 
stance had  prompted  Jack  not  to  leave  Jimmy  on  the 
road,  and  kindly  feeling  prompted  Alice,  when  she  had 
finished  breakfast  and  seen  Wintergreen  about  the  lunch, 
to  run  across  the  street  and  ask  for  the  despised  and 
maligned  Lydia. 

Though  Jack  so  much  disliked  her  going,  she  felt  it 
to  be  her  duty  to  go.  She  was  sure  Lydia  would  be  ex- 
pecting her.  She  had  been  so  long  in  the  habit  of  run- 
ning over,  and  she  wanted  to  thank  her  too  for  meeting 
the  new  cook  at  the  station,  and  to  tell  her  incidentally 
how  delightful  the  new  cook  was.  It  would  relieve 
Lydia's  mind.  She  was  always  so  anxious — poor  kind 
Lydia.  She  would  only  stay  five  minutes,  and  be  back 
before  Jack  could  know  she  had  been  away. 

This  was  her  plan. 

In  accordance  with  it,  without  telling  Wintergreen 
where  she  was  going,  she  hastened  to  the  Fortescues' 
house,  was  admitted  by  the  housemaid,  and  presently 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  Clara.  Clara's  little  eyes 
gloated  over  her  visitor  as  she  entered.  She  was  glad 
that  Lydia  had  gone  out  shopping.  In  her  pleasures 
she  was  selfish.  She  loved  to  enjoy  alone. 


144  WINTERGREEN 

"Good  morning,  my  dear,"  she  said  cordially. 

Alice  asked  where  Lydia  was. 

"Lydia  has  gone  out  shopping,"  said  Clara.  "You 
see  she  has  to  be  ready  at  twelve.  The  motor  from 
Longshaws  is  to  call  for  her.  She  is  going  there  to 
luncheon  to-day  to  meet  their  visitor  from  India,  Miss 
Carmyle,  who  arrived  yesterday." 

"Oh,  really?"  said  Alice  at  once,  but  as  Clara  said 
afterwards  she  grew  suddenly  as  white  as  a  sheet.  This 
was  exaggeration.  Nevertheless  the  shock  was  great, 
and  it  was  only  by  chance  that  Alice  did  not  betray  her 
ignorance. 

As  it  was,  her  "Oh,  really?"  might  have  referred 
to  Lydia  and  not  at  all  to  Miss  Carmyle.  It  was  unsatis- 
factory, and  gave  no  answer  to  the  question  which  was 
on  her  hostess's  mind — "Has  he  or  has  he  not  told  her?" 

"Yes,  of  course  you  would  hear  about  it  from  your 
husband,"  Clara  went  on.  "I  hear  he,  was  meeting  her 
at  Brakely.  Very  kind  I  am  sure  when  he  is  so  much 
occupied.  I  hear  she  is  extremely  pretty." 

It  was  fortunate  for  Alice's  self-possession  that  Clara 
added  this  last  remark.  It  goaded  her  into  antagonism, 
into  defiance,  into  glib  mendacity.  -  Considering  that  it 
was  the  first  time  she  had  had  to  tell  a  lie  consciously  and 
deliberately,  she  did  it  extremely  well. 

"Yes,  charming,  I  hear,"  she  said.  "I  was  sorry  I 
could  not  go  with  Jack  as  he  wanted  me  to  do.  I  had 
to  stay  at  home,  of  course,  to  prepare  things  for  the  new 
cook.  But  I  hope  to  see  Miss  Carmyle  soon.  Jack  has 
promised  to  take  me  to  Longshaws.  It  was  fortunate 
that  he  happened  to  be  passing  Brakely  anyhow  yester- 
day. I  suggested  that  he  should  meet  her  there." 


WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  145 

It  was  wonderful  how  cheerfully  and  naturally  she 
spoke  amid  the  surge  of  emotion  that  was  all  but  en- 
gulfing Her.  Some  of  the  pluckiest  actions  take"  place 
under  the  rose  where  no  one  hears  of  them.  Alice  held 
her  ground  bravely.  She  even  managed  to  sit  and  dis- 
cuss Jimmy  and  her  various  attractions  for  some  little 
time,  before,  fearing  that  Lydia  would  return  and  every- 
thing have  to  be  repeated,  she  at  last  took  her  leave. 

But  as  she  crossed  the  street  to  the  Bow  House  in  a 
kind  of  trance  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  had  died 
since  she  came  out  of  it,  and  were  now  returning  as  a 
ghost  to  the  familiar  gate,  the  familiar  door-step. 

"But  I  must  n't  think  yet,"  she  kept  repeating  to  her- 
self. "I  mustn't  think  yet." 

With  thought  she  knew  would  come  the  deluge. 

She  softly  opened  the  front  door. 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  consulting-room. 
Jack's  voice  and  another  man's.  Jack  was  laughing. 

So  he  could  laugh  and  be  happy,  and  deceive  her  at 
the  same  time!  That  was  nothing.  He  could  hold  her 
in  his  arms !  Kiss  her !  Oh,  it  was  too  cruel.  Why  had 
he  not  told  her  then  ?  How  had  he  been  able  to  help  tell- 
ing her  that  he  had  just  come  from  meeting  this  other 
woman  at  Brakely?  At  Brakely  too!  She  would  not 
have  minded  Longshaws  so  much.  Brakely  with  its 
remoteness  suggested  a  secret  rendezvous.  Oh,  it  was 

horrible!  And  people  had  seen  it  too!  had  known 

of  her  humiliation  even  before  she  knew  of  it! 

Again  her  own  part  in  the  matter  did  not  occur  to  her, 
her  own  irritability  and  unreasonableness.  She  only 
remembered  that  she  had  held  out  her  arms  to  him  and 
that  he  had  returned  her  caresses  with  reservations. 


146  WINTERGREEN 

Wintergreen  that  day  had  her  fill  of  responsibility. 
Her  mistress  did  not  appear  again  that  morning,  except 
to  pass  her  on  the  stairs  without  seeing  her.  She  was 
staring  straight  before  her  like  a  somnambulist. 

"What  has  happened  to  her  now?"  thought  Winter- 
green. 

After  an  interval  she  followed  her. 

She  found  her  in  a  remote  attic  with  one  dirty  little 
gable  window.  Here  she  lay  flung  face  downwards  on 
an  old  sofa  and  sobbing  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

Wintergreen  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  withdrew  as 
quietly  as  she  had  come,  noiselessly  closing  the  door  be- 
hind her. 

Some  hours  later  she  rang  the  bell  for  luncheon. 

Jack  for  a  wonder  appeared  immediately. 

"Is  Mrs.  Adair  not  in  yet?"  he  said,  frowning,  as  he 
glanced  round  the  empty  dining-room.  "Have  you  any 
idea  where  she  went?" 

It  disconcerted  him  to  find  Alice  still  absent,  and  it 
made  him  uncomfortable  as  well.  Out  in  the  village  she 
might  hear  anything  at  any  moment.  Was  there  ever 
such  bad  luck?  And  Jimmy  was  coming  to  call  that 
afternoon  too.  He  had  not  been  able  to  put  her  off. 

"New-comers  always  call  first  at  Alimara,"  she  had 
said.  "And  I  do  want  to  be  friends  with  Alice.  I  do 
want  to  get  our  introduction  over.  You  are  such  an 
uncertain  person.  You  might  not  be  able  to  bring  her 
to  Longshaws  this  afternoon.  And  then  time  would  pass 
on  and  one  would  never  know  what  might  happen  with 
Mrs.  R.  in  the  background  demoralizing  me  as  she  does." 

He  had  been  constrained  to  admit  this. 

But  now — here  was  the  devil  again — he  had  meant  to 
explain  this,  or  as  much  of  it  as  was  necessary,  and  to 


WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  147 

prepare  Alice  for  Jimmy's  visit.  And  of  course  again  at 
this  crucial  moment  Alice  was  not  to  be  found.  Again 
here  was  no  one  to  receive  him  but  this  Wintergreen  with 
her  inscrutable  eyes  and  her  punctilious  manners. 

"Have  you  any  idea  where  my  wife  went?"  he  said 
again  rather  testily  as  he  waited  on  the  rug. 

Wintergreen  hesitated  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 
She  too  had  been  rapidly  cogitating  since  his  last  speech. 
Should  she  or  should  she  not  betray  Alice's  presence 
in  the  house  ?  Was  the  poor  girl  not  hiding  perhaps  from 
this  husband  of  hers?  Was  he  perhaps  the  cause  of  her 
distress?  Otherwise  why  should  she  flee  to  a  back  attic 
and  not  into  his  arms?  Or  again,  if  he  were  not  the 
cause  of  everything,  was  it  not  evident  at  least  that  she 
wished  to  conceal  her  grief  from  him — to  spare  him  per- 
haps the  misery  from  which  she  was  suffering?  In  either 
case  would  it  not  be  better  to  keep  her  place  of  refuge 
closed  in  the  meantime?  Now,  therefore,  when  he 
repeated  his  last  question  she  decided  to  answer  it 
only. 

"I  am  not  sure  where  she  went  when  she  went  out, 
sir,"  she  said,  "but  I  saw  her  go  across  the. street  to  the 
house  opposite;  the  Miss  Fortescues'  I  think,  sir." 

She  saw  his  face  change  at  the  name,  and  realized  too 
late  that  in  her  ignorance  she  had  made  some  mistake. 

"Oh,  indeed?"  was  all  he  said  however,  as  he  took 
his  seat  at 'the  table.  "Well.  I  can't  wait.  I  have  to  be 
off  again  at  two  o'clock." 

As  he  began  to  eat,  Gardshore  entered  the  room,  with 
traces  in  his  hair  still  of  pink  plate-powder,  but  other- 
wise quite  presentable. 

"This  is  splendid !"  cried  Jack,  casting  aside  apparently 
all  thought  of  the  renegade  Alice.  But  throughout  lunch- 


148  WINTERGREEN 

eon,  while  he  talked  and  laughed,  his  anger  was  waxing 
hotter  and  hotter  against  her. 

To  think  that  after  last  night — after  all  he  had  said 
to  her — she  had  again  preferred  Lydia's  company  to  his ! 
And  now  to-day  of  all  days  when  it  was  so  important 
that  he  should  see  her!  For  a  moment  he  thought  of 
sending  Wintergreen  to  the  house  opposite  to  see  whether 
she  were  really  there.  But  next  moment  he  changed  his 
mind.  No,  if  she  chose  to  disregard  his  expressed  wishes 
like  this  she  must  take  the  consequences.  He  would 
wash  his  hands  of  her  and  her  susceptibilities  and  her 
suspicions  and  her  sentimentalities.  She  was  infuriating 
when  he  thought  of  it.  He  tried  therefore  not  to  think, 
but  to  devote  himself  to  entertaining  Gardshore.  He  said 
no  more  to  him  of  Jimmy  however.  They  lunched  to- 
gether pleasantly  enough,  and  Jack  was  amazed  at  the 
improvement  in  his  patient. 

"The  silver  cure  has  worked  miracles,"  he  said  to 
Wintergreen  afterward  when  Gardshore  had  returned 
to  finish  up  his  teapots. 

Wintergreen,  clearing  away  the  dishes,  assented  po- 
litely, but  something  in  her  aspect  reminded  Jack  that 
he  must  leave  a  message. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said  as  he  filled  his  cigarette- 
case  preparatory  to  departure,  "will  you  tell  your  mis- 
tress when  she  comes  in  that  Miss  Carmyle  from  Long- 
shaws  is  coming  to  call  this  afternoon?  And  that  I 
hope  she  will  keep  her  here  for  tea,  as  by  four  o'clock 
I  hope  to  be  in?" 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen. 

After  he  had  gone  she  slipped  upstairs  to  the  little 
attic.  The  sobs  had  ceased.  Her  little  mistress  lay 
silent,  her  face  buried  in  her  arms.  She  was  asleep. 


WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  149 

"And  I  '11  let  her  sleep,"  said  Wintergreert  to  herself. 
"She  shall  rest  at  least  until  it 's  calling-time.  She 
is  not  fit  to  receive  callers  in  the  state  she  is  in." 

As  she  went  downstairs  again,  however,  she  realized 
misgivings  at  the  back  of  her  mind.  Jack's  change  of 
countenance  at  the  name  of  Fortescue  now  recurred  to 
her,  bringing  with  it  belated  doubts.  Ought  she  to  have 
told  him  after  all  of  his  young  wife's  distress?  Why 
had  she  concealed  the  fact  that  at  the  moment  he  was 
asking  for  her  she  was  sobbing  her  heart  out  in  a  back 
attic?  Of  course  the  reason — when  she  thought  of  it — 
had  been  that  she  wanted  to  shield  the  poor  girl  from 
discovery,  looking  doubtless  like  nothing  on  earth,  when 
he  had  still  the  radiant  loveliness  of  the  other  in  his 
memory. 

But  after  all  what  concern  had  it  been  of  hers?  Surely 
a  cook-housekeeper  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  private 
affairs  of  those  whom  she  had  undertaken  merely  to  keep 
clean  and  fed  ? 

"It  serves  me  right  for  not  minding  my  own  business," 
she  said  to  herself  as  she  went  downstairs  again. 

The  silver  was  finished.  Alexander  had  gone.  Only 
Gardshore  remained,  smoking  a  cigarette  by  the  fireplace. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  lingering,"  he  said  as  she 
entered.  "My  job  is  done.  I  have  no  further  excuse  to 
stay.  But  I  am  sweer,  as  Alexander  would  say,  to  go 
back  to  my  parlor.  This  kitchen  is  a  delightful  place. 
It  is  the  only  really  habitable  room  in  the  house.  That 
golden  wall — or  is  it  yellow  ocher? — those  brazen  jelly- 
pans  up  there,  those  blue  plates,  that  eight-day  clock, 
how  charming  they  all  are,  how  useful  as  well  as  orna- 
mental !  I  cannot  go  back  to  my  vases  and  my  china 
ornaments  and  my  wall-paper  with  blue  roses  on  it  that 


i5o  WINTERGREEN 

have  leaves  like  the  Kaiser's  mustache.  My  whole  soul 
revolts  from  seeing  again  'The  Happy  Days  of  Charles  I' 
over  the  mantelpiece.  When  I  do  see  it  I  shall  relapse. 
I  am  certain  of  it." 

Wintergreen  laughed  as  she  tied  on  a  large  apron. 

"Accompany  me  to  the  scullery  then,"  she  said.  "You 
must  work  for  your  privileges." 

"Oh,  I  '11  do  anything  if  you  '11  let  me  stay,"  exclaimed 
Gardshore.  "I  '11  run  on  my  knees  to  serve  you." 

"I  'd  much  rather  you  dried  the  dishes,"  she  returned. 

And  soon  they  were  hard  at  it. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  another  half -hour,  and  there  was 
still  no  sign  from  the  sleeper  upstairs.  The  dish-washing 
had  long  been  over. 

"Now  I  must  bake,"  said  Wintergreen.  "There 's 
somebody  coming  to  tea  perhaps.  You  can't  help  me  with 
this,  but  you  can  sit  and  talk  to  me." 

He  sat  and  talked  therefore. 

Another  half -hour  passed. 

"I  must  wake  her,"  said  Wintergreen  to  herself  as 
she  put  away  her  baking  board.  "That  caller  will  be 
arriving  on  us." 

Even  as  she  spoke  the  door-bell  rang  suddenly. 

"Watch  these  scones,  will  you  ?"  she  said  to  Gardshore! 
"You  can  imagine  yourself  King  Alfred." 

Then  she  departed. 

But  there  was  no  one  on  the  door-step  but  the  brown 
woman  of  the  night  before,  now  in  magenta  which  was 
singularly  unbecoming  to  her,  and  a  bonnet  with  magenta 
leaves  of  a  different  shade  and  a  tuft  of  pheasant's  feath- 
ers in  it. 

"Oh,  good  afternoon;  is  Mrs.  Adair.  in?"  she  said 
in  a  fluttered  nervous  manner. 


WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  151 

"May  I  see  her?"  she  added,  without  waiting  for  an 
answer  which  was  rather  long  in  coming.  "I  am  in  the 
habit  of  just  running  upstairs." 

And  run  upstairs  she  did  before  Wintergreen  could 
stop  her  or  make  up  her  mind  whether  she  should  be 
stopped  or  not. 

Alice,  only  just  awake,  was  on  her  way  to  her  room 
when  Lydia's  familiar  voice  below  struck  upon  her  ears, 
and  in  terror  of  being  found  with  her  face  swollen  and 
discolored  by  weeping  she  hastily  let  down  her  hair  and 
shook  it  like  a  veil  over  her.  Then  flinging  the  nearest 
towel  round  her  she  had  begun  to  brush  it  hastily  as  on 
the  night  of  the  letters  when  Lydia,  breathless  with  haste 
and  agitation,  entered  the  bedroom  and  sank  down  upon 
the  sofa. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  she  said  without  preamble,  "I  am  just 
on  my  way  home  from  lunching  at  Longshaws." 

"Yes?  Did  you  enjoy  yourself?"  said  Alice  from 
the  depths  of  her  hair.  Her  voice  sounded  cheerfully  in- 
different. 

"No,"  said  Lydia.  "At  least  I  enjoyed  the  lunch  it- 
self. They  always  have  delicious  food.  But  I  do  dis- 
like Cousin  Charles  when  he  is  frolicsome,  and  as  for 
Cousin  Sarah  I  never  saw  her  in  a  worse  temper." 

"And  was  Miss  Carmyle  there?"  came  Alice's  voice 
without  a  tremor  from  the  shades. 

"Very  much  there,"  said  Lydia.  "She  was  the  cause 
of  it  all — all  the  frolicsomeness  and  the  bad  temper  I 
mean.  She  's  lovely  of  course — exquisitely  dressed  and 
all  that — but  bizarre,  my  dear,  very  bizarre — a  real  trial 
to  have  for  a  visitor.  I  was  sorry  indeed  for  poor  Cousin 
Sarah.  Cousin  Charles  in  my  opinion  quite  forgot  him- 
self at  lunch,  and  the  dignity  which  a  head  of  a  house 


152  WINTERGREEN 

should  keep  up.  The  maids  were  all  giggling.  I  saw 
them  quite  well,  although  they  took  care  to  turn  their 
backs  toward  us  of  course." 

She  paused  for  breath,  but  as  Alice  made  no  response 
she  plunged  on  again  with  nervous  haste. 

"•But  what  I  came  for,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "was  to  tell 
you  from  Miss  Carmyle  that  she  was  coming  to  call  this 
afternoon,  and  hoped  you  would  be  in,  as  she  was  dying 
to  see  you." 

Here  Alice,  through  a  rift  in  her  veil,  caught  sight  for 
a  second  of  Lydia's  face  in  the  mirror,  her  bead-like  eyes 
almost  starting  from  her  head  in  their  vain  effort  to 
penetrate  the  invisible. 

"Now  it's  coming,  whatever  it  is,"  thought  Alice,  and 
enclosed  herself  again. 

"I  bring  the  message,"  Lydia  went  on,  "but — but  I 
suppose  you  will  know  of  this  already,  for  she  told  me 
she  had  told  the  doctor  this  morning  when  she  was  out 
with  him  for  three  hours  in  the  motor." 

There  was  no  immediate  response  to  this  from  the 
shades.  Alice  was  holding  a  long  thick  strand  in  her 
hand  and  dragging  the  comb  through  it  rather  fiercely. 
At  last,  however,  she  spoke,  and  her  voice  sounded  quite 
debonair. 

"Oh  yes,  I  told  Jack  to  take  her,"  she  said.  "And— 
and  he  gave  me  her  message,  thank  you." 

"So  that,  after  all,  you  see,"  said  Lydia  about  an  hour 
afterwards  when  she  had  reported  everything  to  Clara, 
"Alice  knew  everything  already  about  this  morning,  and 
did  n't  seem  to  be  in  the  least  disturbed.  I  need  not  have 
hurried  home  to  warn  her  and  tell  her  about  it  before 
Miss  Carmyle  came  to  call." 


WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  153 

"Then  why  did  you  do  it?"  said  Clara  discontentedly. 
"If  you  had  stayed  on  you  might  have  had  some  news 
to  tell  me." 

Lydia,  who  had  been  talking  for  an  hour,  felt  this 
to  be  rather  hard.  She  remained  silent  therefore,  not 
to  say  sulky. 

"By  news  I  mean  information,"  Clara  explained.  "We 
know  no  more  about  the  affaire  Carmyle  than  we  did 
before.  This  motor-ride  has  no  significance,  especially 
when  his  wife  sent  him.  But  is  Miss  Carmyle  in  love 
with  him  ?  That 's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"For  Alice's  sake  I  hope  not,"  said  Lydia  gloomily. 

"You  mean  Miss  Carmyle  is  so  irresistible?"  said 
Clara  eagerly. 

"Judging  by  Cousin  Charles,"  said  Lydia. 

"Horrid  old  man,"  said  Clara.  "I  never  could  stand 
Cousin  Charles.  He  tried  once  to  flirt  with  me.  He 
did  n't  try  it  twice,  I  tell  you." 

Again  Lydia  was  silent,  contrasting  in  her  own  mind 
the  old  and  the  new  loves  of  Cousin  Charles;  Clara  re- 
viling him  in  her  Shetland  shawl,  Jimmy  bandying  jests 
with  him  across  the  luncheon-table. 

"It 's  all  Cousin  Sarah's  fault  of  course,"  Clara  went 
on,  referring  to  the  first  part  of  their  conversation.  "She 
always  does  rush  things.  I  never  saw  a  woman  take 
things  so  for  granted.  And  not  only  that,  but  she  rushes 
other  people.  I  gather  you  hardly  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Miss  Carmyle.  Now  if  you  had  stayed  longer  you 
might  have  come  back  tete-a-tete  with  her.  Nothing 
fosters  intimacy  like  a  tete-a-tete.  Let  this  afternoon 
be  a  lesson  to  you.  Never  be  rushed  again,  Lydia." 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  Alice  twisted  up  her  hair 


154  WINTERGREEN 

again,  and  was  coming  downstairs  in  hat  and  coat  and 
thick  veil  when  Wintergreen  met  her. 

"The  doctor  told  me  to  tell  you,  madam,"  said  Winter- 
green,  "that  a  Miss  Carmyle  is  coming  to  call  this  after- 
noon and  that " 

"Will  you  say,"  said  Alice  with  tears  still  in  her  voice, 
"will  you  say  to  the  doctor  and — and  any  one  who  may 
ask  for  me — that  I  have  been  obliged  to  go  out?" 

"But  surely  you  are  not  going  out  without  lunch, 
madam?"  said  Wintergreen,  planting  herself  stolidly  in 
her  path,  her  honest  face  full  of  concern,  for  there  was 
something  desperate  about  the  little  figure. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Alice  hastily.  "At  least — I  'm  going 
out  to  lunch.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  before — I  'm  sorry." 

And  so  she  escaped. 

"Well,"  said  Wintergreen  to  herself  as  she  stood  watch- 
ing her  leave  the  house,  "where  can  she  be  going  to  lunch 
with  a  face  like  that  ?" 

A  sense  of  irritation  at  a  woman  who  could  appear 
at  any  social  function  looking  such  a  fright  took  posses- 
sion of  her. 

"It's  no  wonder  if  he  honeymoons  occasionally,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

All  her  sympathies  were  with  Jack  for  the  moment. 

But  Alice  was  past  caring  whether  any  one  sympathized 
with  her  or  not.  She  had  soon  left  the  houses  and  the 
highroad  behind  her,  and  was  hastening  down  a  sandy 
path  which  took  her  to  the  seashore. 

There  was  a  big  rock  there,  she  knew,  where  sea- 
pinks  grew,  and  climbing  up  into  the  heart  of  it  she  found 
a  little  garden  of  them.  Here  she  flung  herself  down 
amid  the  flowers,  too  absolutely  miserable  even  for  weep- 
ing. 


WITHIN  A  SICK-ROOM  155 

The  tide  came  in  and  surrounded  her  little  fastness. 
Sea-gulls  and  crows  wheeled  and  cawed  and  shrieked 
over  it.  But  the  waves  had  left  it  high  and  dry  and  the 
sun  had  set  before  she  rose  up  again  to  return  to  the 
Bow  House. 

All  this  time  she  had  shed  no  tears,  had  given  vent  to 
no  soliloquies.  The  change  that  the  hours  had  wrought  in 
her  was  a  silent  change,  but  it  was  none  the  less  a  very 
thorough  transformation. 

She  had  come  to  her  garden  of  sea-pinks  an  agonized 
child.  She  left  it  a  bitter  woman. 

"He  shall  not  see  that  I  care,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
have  told  three  lies  already.  I  shall  go  on  lying." 


CHAPTER  IX 

In  which  Winter  green  has  a  Tea-party  and  Alice  in- 
stitutes an  Anniversary 

THOUGH  the  world  may  come  to  an  end  in  one 
sense  it  can  go  on  in  another,  and  though  it  seemed 
to  Alice  that  afternoon  that  nothing  of  importance  could 
ever  happen  again,  things  were  happening  all  the  same. 

"Who  is  it  that  is  coming  to  tea?"  said  Gardshore  when 
Wintergreen  came  into  the  kitchen  again  after  Lydia's 
visit  and  Alice's  departure.  "Is  it  any  one  interesting?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Wintergreen.  "It's  a  Miss  Car- 
myle  from  Longshaws." 

Gardshore  was  occupied  in  removing  scones  from  the 
oven  at  that  moment.  His  silence,  therefore,  was  not 
noticeable,  though  it  lasted  for  some  length  of  time. 
Wintergreen  meanwhile  went  out  and  in,  now  to  the 
telephone,  now  to  the  pantry,  now  to  the  front  door, 
now  to  the  back. 

"Are  you  never  going  to  sit  down?"  said  Gardshore 
at  last.  "I  am  disappointed  in  you.  Last  night  I  thought 
you  were  a  restful  person." 

"You  should  never  trust  to  first  impressions,"  said 
Wintergreen.  "They  are  generally  wrong.  Mine  in- 
variably are.  But  why  do  you  stay  here,"  she  added  as 
the  bell  rang  again  and  she  made  for  the  door  once  more, 
"on  this  lovely  afternoon?  Why  don't  you  go  for  a 
walk  on  the  sands?" 

"Because  it  would  be  bad  for  me,"  he  replied.  "I 

156 


WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA-PARTY      157 

should  feel  like  Mary  calling  the  cattle  home,  or  like 
Edgar  Allan  at  the  tomb  of  Annabel.  Helping  you  I 
feel  like  Mr.  Micawber  in  one  of  his  lighter  moods.  You 
have  an  enlivening  effect  on  me." 

She  laughed  and  went  off  again.  But  before  she  came 
back  the  bell  rang  once  more. 

He  started  up  to  listen  as  he  had  already  done  a  dozen 
times,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  voice  of  all  the  voices 
in  the  world  spoke. 

"Is  Mrs.  Adair "  it  began  high  and  clear,  and  it 

was  as  though  every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  responded 
to  it.  But  here  it  broke  off  short. 

"O — oh!"  it  exclaimed  as  though  in  utter  amazement. 

At  the  same  time  there  was  an  answering  exclamation, 
then  a  rapid  interchange  of  question  and  answer  of  which 
to  his  chagrin  he  could  not  hear  a  word. 

At  last,  however,  the  speakers  came  into  the  inner 
hall. 

"I  'm  glad  she 's  not  in  yet,"  said  Jimmy.  "I  want 
to  talk  to  you  in  the  kitchen.  Do  let  me.  Just  till  she 
comes  back.  Is  n't  it  funny  how  we  should  meet  to-day 
when  only  yesterday  we  said  good-by  for  ever?" 

Gardshore  thought  afterwards  that  if  he  had  been  able 
at  that  moment  he  would  have  taken  cover  in  the  scullery. 
As  it  was  he  stood  paralyzed  on  the  hearth-rug. 

Wintergreen  laughed  and  threw  open  the  kitchen  door. 

"I  have  already  a  visitor,"  she  said.  "May  I  introduce 
you?  Mr.  Gardshore,  Miss  Carmyle.  Miss  Carmyle, 
Mr.  Gardshore." 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Jimmy,  bowing  stiffly. 

"How  do  you  do  ?"  said  Gardshore  with  glacial  effect. 

Wintergreen  was  surprised.  She  had  expected  other 
things  of  them. 


158  WINTERGREEN 

"Wrong  as  usual !"  she  said  to  herself.  "How  tire- 
some! I  should  not  have  brought  her  in." 

Aloud  she  said  with  an  attempt  to  thaw  the  atmos- 
phere : 

"Mr.  Gardshore  has  kindly  been  helping  me  with  the 
scones." 

"Indeed?"  said  Jimmy,  beginning  to  recover  herself 
after  a  shock  which  had  been  overwhelming.  "Are 
you  good  at  scones,  Mr.  Gardshore?" 

She  was  thinking  as  she  spoke  that  she  would  not  have 
known  him.  Was  this  ghost  of  a  man  the  passionate  lover 
who  had  rushed  out  of  her  presence  into  the  dark  three 
years  before,  after  calling  her  the  curse  of  his  life  and 
all  sorts  of  other  things?  Then  he  had  been  in  the  hey- 
day of  youth  and  strength ;  now  she  could  have  wept  over 
him. 

"Yes — no,"  he  stammered  with  white  lips. 

At  this  moment  to  Wintergreen's  relief  the  mad  clock 
on  the  stairs  struck  four. 

"It's  twenty  minutes  fast,"  she  said  to  herself.  "But 
it  has  saved  a  mauvais  quart  d'heure." 

"I  am  sure,  Miss  Carmyle,"  she  said  aloud,  "that  Mrs. 
Adair  would  wish  me  to  offer  you  tea.  May  I  take  it  into 
the  dining-room  for  you?" 

"Oh,  no,"  exclaimed  Jimmy.  "Do  let 's  have  it 
here." 

And  then  of  a  sudden  she  began  chattering  wildly  of 
their  journey,  of  their  railway  accident,  of  Brakely,  of 
anything  and  everything,  and  presently  Gardshore  joined 
in. 

Ten  minutes  later  found  them  buttering  scones  to- 
gether, while  Wintergreen  made  tea  in  a  big  brown  tea- 
pot 


WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA-PARTY      159 

"They  're  getting  on,"  said  the  hostess  to  herself. 
"They  're  passed  through  the  first  stiffness." 

But  to  both  her  guests  it  seemed  as  though  the  stiffness 
were  only  now  begun.  In  their  embarrassed  speechless- 
ness  they  had  been  nearer  to  each  other  than  in  their 
volubility. 

"She  's  putting  me  in  my  place,"  Gardshore  reflected 
bitterly.  "She  always  used  to  say  that  when  she  wanted 
to  keep  people  at  their  distance  she  was  especially  polite 
and  talkative  to  them." 

"He  has  forgotten,"  reflected  Jimmy  with  a  pang  of 
grief.  "He  is  glad  I  have  given  him  the  opportunity  of 
ignoring  everything." 

Meanwhile  she  was  talking  rapidly. 

"And  I  came  back  along  the  corridor,"  she  said  to 
Wintergreen,  "after  you  had  gone  to  find  out  your  name 
and  address.  Was  n't  that  inconsistent  of  me,  after 
all  we  had  said  about  darkness  and  the  death-hour?  It 
served  me  right  that  I  should  see  you  again  to-day.  I 
hope  I  did  not  say  anything  very  silly.  You  know  we 
agreed  that  we  could  say  whatever  we  liked  because  we 
would  never  have  any  opportunity  of  knowing  whether 
we  afterwards  contradicted  ourselves." 

Wintergreen  laughed,  but  a  little  perfunctorily.  She 
was  disappointed  in  both  her  guests.  Jimmy's  talk  to- 
day was  so  different  from  yesterday's.  It  was  futile, 
jejune,  with  no  particular  point.  As  for  Gardshore, 
though  he  talked  and  even  grinned  at  intervals,  his  face 
might  have  been  carved  in  ivory. 

"What 's  the  matter  with  him  ?"  said  Wintergreen  to 
herself.  "He  's  like  a  graven  image.  He  's  like  a  death's- 
head  at  a  feast." 

She  made  up  her  mind  that  he  must  be  afflicted  with 


160  WINTERGREEN 

shyness.  Yet  he  had  never  been  so  with  her.  It  was  all 
very  puzzling.  She  was  tired,  and  by  the  end  of  tea 
she  was  tired  of  her  company  as  well.  She  was  wishing 
them  both  at  Jericho,  especially  Jimmy  and  all  the  prob- 
lems she  brought  with  her. 

'"And  it  will  be  so  awkward  if  the  doctor  comes  in  be- 
fore his  wife,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Even  as  the  thought  passed  through  her  mind,  as 
though  in  answer  to  it,  the  doctor  entered  the  house. 

They  all  heard  him  open  the  front  door. 

"There's  Alice,"  thought  Jimmy  with  relief,  and  she 
threw  away  the  cigarette  she  had  been  smoking. 

"Here  's  the  knight-at-arms,"  thought  Gardshore,  and 
a  sudden  unexpected  wave  of  wild  jealousy  overwhelmed 
him. 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  abruptly.  "I — I  have  some  writing 
to  do." 

"Good-by,"  said  Jimmy,  holding  out  a  hand  which 
she  was  disgusted  to  see  was  trembling. 

But  Gardshore  saw  nothing  apparently,  not  even  the 
hand.  Next  moment  he  was  gone,  and  she  could  hear 
him  mounting  the  staircase. 

Wintergreen  went  out  to  meet  the  new-comer. 

"Miss  Carmyle  has  come,  sir,"  she  said.  "We  found 
we  had  met  before,  and,  as  Mrs.  Adair  has  not  come 
in  yet,  she  has  had  tea  with  me." 

Jack's  brow  darkened.  He  was  already  in  a  bad 
temper.  Something  had  happened  to  the  motor  which 
might  lay  it  up  for  two  days.  He  had  had  words  with 
Alexander  about  it,  and  Alexander,  by  reason  of  his 
strong  voice  and  his  deliberation,  invariably  came  off  best 
in  argument.  And  now  to  come  in  and  find  that  Jimmy 


WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA-PARTY      161 

had  been  received  by  this  officious  old  woman  instead 
of  by  Alice  was  too  much. 

"Incredible !"  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes  blazing.  "Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Mrs.  Adair  has  n't  come  in  yet?" 

To  Wintergreen  in  her  present  mood  both  his  anger 
and  his  tone  were  offensive.  They  made  her  angry  too, 
not  only  with  him  but  with  Alice  as  well.  After  all,  why 
should  she  shield  her  any  longer  ? 

"Mrs.  Adair  told  me  to  say  to  any  one  who  came  in," 
she  said,  "that  she  had  had  to  go  out." 

"She  'had  my  message  then  ?"  said  Jack  quickly.  "You 
have  seen  her  since  lunch?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen  recklessly.  "I  gave  her 
your  message,  and  then  she  went  out  leaving  the  mes- 
sage, I  have  given  you.  She  has  not  been  in  since." 

What  Jack  would  have  answered  will  never  be  known, 
for  at  that  moment  Jimmy  appeared. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  she  said,  "I  have  had  such  a  lovely  tea 
in  your  delightful  kitchen.  You  see  Wintergreen  and  I 
are  quite  old  friends.  We  went  through  a  railway  acci- 
dent together.  But  now  good-by,  everybody,"  she  added 
quickly.  "I  must  be  off  home.  I  must  come  again  and 
see  Alice  another  time." 

Here  Wintergreen  discreetly  withdrew  to  her  own 
place. 

"I  can't  understand,"  said  Jack  with  what  composure 
he  could  muster,  "where  Alice  can  be  now.  Something 
very  important  must  have  detained  her.  I  know  she  was 
dying  to  see  you." 

"Oh,  well — another  day,"  said  Jimmy  airily.  But  there 
was  again  that  in  her  manner  which  had  been  there  on 
the  highroad.  And  behind  the  surface  disappointment 
this  time  was  a  deep  surging  bitterness  which  concerned 


162  WINTERGREEN 

neither  Jack  nor  Alice,  but  of  which  Jack  was  neverthe- 
less aware. 

In  his  ignorance  he  attributed  everything  to  Alice, 
and  for  the  first  time  a  distinct  desire  to  retaliate  came 
to  him. 

"If  she  is  going  on  like  this,  at  least  she  shall  have 
some  reason  for  it/'  he  said  to  himself. 

Then  aloud  he  said :  "But  why  should  you  hurry  away 
just  when  I  've  come?" 

"Cauldstanes  is  not  Alimara,"  she  laughed. 

"Oh,  forget  all  that  rubbish,"  he  said.  "I  was  talking 
nonsense." 

"All  right,"  she  said,  "but  I  must  go  now.  You  see 
I  did  n't  tell  them  at  Longshaws  that  I  was  coming 
here.  I  wanted  to  come  alone,  and  I  was  afraid  that 
Mrs.  R.  would  come  too.  I  'm  sorry  Alice  is  n't  in.  I 
made  sure  she  would  be.  I  sent  a  message  to  her  by 
Miss  Fortescue." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you?"  said  Jack. 

And  his  anger  flared  higher  and  higher. 

"Well,  if  you  must  go,  you  must,"  he  said.  "But  at 
least  allow  me  to  walk  back  with  you.  I  would  motor 
you  if  I  could,  but  the  wretched  thing  's  gone  wrong  some- 
how, and  my  fool  chauffeur  says  that  he  may  not  get  it 
right  for  days." 

"Oh,  you  poor  dear!"  said  Jimmy. 

As  she  said  it  Wintergreen  reappeared. 

"Do  you  wish  tea,  sir  ?"  she  said  stiffly,  for  she  was  still 
offended.  Ard  her  Buddha-like  aspect  at  that  juncture 
put  the  lid  on  things. 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  said  Jack,  "and  when  Mrs.  Adair 
comes  in,  tell  her  I  've  gone  to  Longshaws  with  Miss 
Carmyle,  and  will  be  late  for  supper." 


WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA-PARTY      163 


day  had  been  a  field-day  for  Miss  Clara  Fortes- 
cue.  As  soon  as  Lydia  had  finished  her  report  she  had 
established  her  sister  behind  the  curtain  with  the  white 
palm  leaves  on  it.  From  that  spot  she  had  never  budged 
all  afternoon,  though  Lydia  had  come  and  gone. 

She  alone  had  seen  Alice  go  out.  Lydia  had  been 
changing  her  dress  at  the  time. 

"My  dear,"  Clara  said  when  she  returned,  "the  mes- 
sage from  Miss  Carmyle  has  taken  effect.  Alice  has 
gone  out,  with  her  oldest  coat  and  skirt  on  —  the  one  with 
the  patch  at  the  back." 

"Oh,  not  that  one  surely  !"  exclaimed  Lydia,  horrified. 
"She  never  goes  out  with  that." 

"Well,  she  did  to-day,"  said  Clara  with  zest.  "Not 
only  that  but  she  had  that  awful  old  hat  on  without  any 
ribbon  that  she  used  to  run  over  here  with  when  it  was 
raining  or  snowing  in  the  winter  —  you  know  the  one. 
She  must  have  put  it  on  inadvertently,  and  a  veil  so  thick 
you  could  n't  see  her." 

"Where  did  she  go?"  said  Lydia  faintly. 

"Oh,  up  the  street,"  said  Clara,  "westward;  toward 
the  cliffs." 

The  word  was  horribly  suggestive.  Lydia  said  no 
more,  but  presently  she  left  the  room  and  the  house,  and 
slipping  along  under  Clara's  window  she  made  for  the 
open  country.  Soon  she  was  scrambling  among  the 
tumbled  rocks  at  the  cliff-foot.  But  though  she  slid  and 
splashed  among  the  seaweed  and  dragged  herself  up  and 
slid  down  precipitous  places  for  about  an  hour  no  Alice 
was  to  be  seen.  The  garden  of  the  sea-pinks  was  not 
known  to  Lydia,  and  though  she  passed  quite  close  to 
the  place  the  rock  fastness  kept  its  secret  and  its  occu- 
pant in  peace. 


164  WINTERGREEN 

About  four  o'clock  Lydia  returned  to  find  that  a  new 
sensation  had  obliterated  the  memory  of  the  former  one. 

"Miss  Carmyle  has  arrived!"  exclaimed  Clara  as  soon 
as  she  entered  the  drawing-room.  "At  least  I  am  sure 
it  was  Miss  Carmyle!  What  is  she  like?  Mercifully  I 
had  my  opera-glasses.  Is  she  medium  height,  slim,  in 
a  French  gray  cloth  coat  and  skirt,  very  smart,  with  a 
very  smart  straw-trimmed  hat,  shoes,  stockings,  and 
gloves  to  match?  Bronze  hair,  brown  eyes,  pink  and 
white  complexion,  that  looks  as  if  it  were  touched  up? 
Powdered,  I  think,  in  places — altogether  a  rather  demi- 
mondaine  look?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  exclaimed  Lydia.  "That's  her.  But  she 
would  n't  be  admitted,  of  course  ?" 

"Wasn't  she?"  said  Clara.  "Just  wait  a  bit.  She  is 
a  friend  of  this  Wintergreen's  who  came  last  night — a 
great  friend  evidently.  Did  you  know  that?" 

"Miss  Carmyle — a  friend  of  Wintergreen's!"  ex- 
claimed Lydia,  astonished. 

Clara  nodded. 

"They  shook  hands,"  she  said.  "They  went  into  the 
house  together." 

"Went  into  the  house  together!"  exclaimed  Lydia. 
"And  Alice  out?" 

"And  Alice  out,"  Clara  repeated  eagerly.  "And  what 
they  are  doing  there  now  no  one  knows.  Ring  the  bell 
for  tea,  Lydia.  I  feel  quite  faint." 

"But  do  you  mean  to  say,  Clara,"  said  Lydia  as  she 
obeyed,  "that  Miss  Carmyle  is  actually  visiting  Winter- 
green  in  Ker  mistress's  absence?" 

"Yes,  Lydia,  I  do,"  said  Clara.  "And  there  is  more  in 
this  than  meets  the  eye.  I  have  been  thinking  over 


WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA-PARTY      165 

everything  since  this  happened,  and  I  am  confident  there 
is  collusion." 

"Collusion?"  exclaimed  Lydia.  "Oh,  surely  not, 
Clara." 

"Did  they  not  both  arrive  last  night,"  said  Clara, 
"both  Miss  Carmyle  and  Wintergreen?  From  what  you 
told  me  they  must  have  come  by  the  same  train.  Now 
if  that  is  n't  collusion,  what  is  ?" 

"•But  how — why  should  they  collude?"  said  Lydia 
miserably.  "O  Clara,  don't  you  think  this  may  be  just 
a  coincidence?" 

"If  it  gives  you  any  comfort  to  think  so,  Lydia — do 
so,"  said  Clara. 

The  maid  came  in  then  to  prepare  for  tea.  The  table 
was  placed  where  they  both  could  reach  it  and  within  a 
yard  of  the  palm  leaves  and  roses. 

"I  feel  it  in  my  bones,"  said  Clara  as  she  stirred 
her  first  cup,  "that  something  more  will  happen  pres- 
ently, Lydia." 

"Oh,  it  is  happening  now!"  exclaimed  Lydia,  starting 
up.  "There 's  the  doctor  coming !" 

"Ah,  I  thought  so!"  said  Clara,  hastily  setting  down 
her  tea  and  resuming  her  opera-glass.  "And  he  is  agi- 
tated— discomposed.  Lydia — mark  my  words! — he 
knows  Miss  Carmyle  is  waiting  for  him." 

But  here  Lydia  made  a  stand. 

"Yes,  but,  Clara,  he  thinks  Alice  is  there  too,"  she 
said.  "Remember  it  is  impossible  he  can  know  that  she 
is  out." 

"Impossible?"  cried  Clara  contemptuously.  "Noth- 
ing is  impossible  in  a  case  like  this.  Do  you,  for  instance, 
know  where  Alice  is?" 


166  WINTERGREEN 

"No,"  Lydia  admitted. 

"How  do  you  know  then  that  he  does  n't  know  ?"  said 
Clara. 

"All  the  same  I  don't  believe  he  knows  that  Alice  is 
out,"  said  Lydia  stoutly. 

And  to  emphasize  her  disbelief  she  resumed  her  seat, 
turned  her  back  to  the  window,  and  began  helping  her- 
self to  cake. 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  shriek  from  Clara. 

"Aha !"  she  exclaimed. 

In  spite  of  herself  Lydia  turned  hastily  toward  the 
window. 

Jack  and  Jimmy  were  just  emerging,  talking  appar- 
ently with  the  utmost  gaiety,  a  vision  of  brilliant  youth 
and  light-heartedness  against  the  background  of  dingy 
houses.  They  had  disappeared  up  the  street  before  either 
of  the  sisters  spoke. 

Then  Clara  drew  a  long  breath. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  Lydia?"  she  said. 

"I  think,"  said  Lydia,  starting  up  again  and  scatter- 
ing crumbs  of  cake  to  right  and  left,  "that  men  are  hate- 
ful and  so  are  women." 

Then  she  fled  from  the  room  weeping. 

Clara,  however,  saw  out  the  day.  She  saw  Alice  re- 
turn like  a  shadow  in  the  gloaming.  She  saw  Winter- 
green  come  out  to  light  the  lamp  over  the  gate.  She 
saw  Jack  return.  Even  after  that  she  still  sat  watching 
until  the  maid  came  in 'with  the  lamp,  and,  like  the  care- 
taker of  a  theater,  pulled  down  the  blind  and  put  an  end 
to  her  seance. 

After  Jack  and  Jimmy  departed  there  was  a  pause  in 
events  at  the  Bow  House.  No  bell  rang,  nothing  hap- 


WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA-PARTY      167 

pened  for  a  long  time.  There  were  two  comfortable 
basket  chairs  in  the  kitchen,  and  in  one  of  them  Winter- 
green  seated  herself.  And  so  tired  was  she  that  no 
sooner  was  she  comfortably  established  than  she  fell 
asleep.  No  sooner,  also,  had  this  happened  than,  armed 
with  a  writing-board  and  a  scribbling-pad,  Gardshore  en- 
tered. 

"I  know  I  am  a  nuisance,"  he  said  as  he  did  so,  ad- 
dressing the  crown  of  Wintergreen's  black  cap,  which 
was  all  that  was  visible  of  her  over  her  chair-back.  "But 
I  cannot  stand  my  bower  of  blue  roses  nor  Charles  I  any 
longer." 

The  black  cap  did  not  move,  and  there  was  no  response 
but  a  gentle  snore. 

Nevertheless  he  came  and  sat  down  in  the  other  basket 
chair. 

"I  can  attend  to  bells  for  her,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
"while  she  keeps  me  in  my  seven  senses." 

Then  he  began  to  write  feverishly. 

"It  is  over,"  he  wrote.    "We  have  met  and  parted." 

But  here  he  suddenly  threw  away  his  writing-pad,  and, 
clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head,  he  sat  staring  at  Win- 
tergreen  in  a  kind  of  desperation. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  said  to  himself.    "I  can't  do  it." 

In  his  troubled  mind  the  scene  of  the  afternoon  ree'n- 
acted  itself.  Again  he  saw  Jimmy  more  lovely,  more 
wonderful  than  ever,  seated  in  the  chair  opposite.  Again 
he  heard  her  talking  and  laughing,  while  he  talked  and 
laughed  too,  with  death  in  his  heart.  Again  he  realized, 
as  he  had  done  in  the  afternoon,  that  the  last  glimmer 
of  hope  was  now  quenched  for  ever.  Her  manner  had 
showed  this  conclusively,  indescribably.  They  had  met 
as  strangers,  they  had  parted  estranged. 


168  WINTERGREEN 

He  was  humiliated  to  find  that  his  will  to  live  on  as 
the  protector  of  the  new  knight-at-arms  was  now  also 
extinguished.  He  had  no  longer  any  interest  in  his  mis- 
sion. He.  no  longer  felt  he  could  be  a  beneficent  ghost. 
How  could  he  be  a  ghost  at  all  ? — he  who  dared  not  touch 
her  hand  lest  he  should  fall  on  his  knees  before  her, 
he  whose  whole  being  was  even  now  in  a  turmoil  at  the 
thought  of  her  and  Adair  on  the  road  to  Longshaws  to- 
gether? Yet,  ghost  or  not,  he  would  have  to  go  through 
with  it.  He  would  have  to  do  something  at  least  before 
he  went  out.  It  would  be  hellish  to  allow  this  to  happen 
to  Adair  without  a  word — Adair  so  honest  and  unsus- 
pecting. 

He  started  up  in  his  seat  with  wild  eyes.  But  as  he 
did  so  other  eyes  dully  and  drowsily  met  his,  blinking  at 
him  from  the  chair  opposite.  Then  remembrance  came 
into  them  and  their  owner  sat  up  also. 

"I  have  been  asleep  surely,"  she  said,  adjusting  her 
black  cap. 

He  tried  to  laugh. 

"You  have,"  he  answered.  "But  I  have  been  on  the 
watch  all  the  time.  Forgive  me  for  coming  again." 

She  stopped  adjusting  and  sat  looking  at  him. 

"Have  you  come  for  your  coffee  ?"  she  said.  "I  have 
it  all  ready  for  you.  It  needs  just  to  be  heated." 

"I  don't  want  it  to-night,  thank  you,"  he  said  grimly. 

"Now  isn't  that  like  a  man?"  she  said.  "When  I 
have  roasted  and  ground  it  for  you.  But  I  'm  glad  all 
the  same,"  she  added.  "Coffee  's  no  cure  for  you." 

"No,  you  're  quite  right,"  he  said,  endeavoring  to  speak 
lightly.  "I  'd  rather  have  wintergreen.  That 's  a  kind 
of  cure  too,  is  n't  it  ?" 


WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA-PARTY      169 

She  laughed. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "For  pains  and  aches." 
"Well,  God  knows,"  he  said,  "I  have  aches  enough!" 
She  made  no  rejoinder  to  this,  but  talked  of  other  things 
until,  fearing  that  Jack  might  return,  he  went  upstairs 
again. 

"And  write  no  more  to-night,"  she  adjured  him,  seeing 
him  picking  up  his  writing-pad,  "because  I  shall  need  you 
to-morrow  very  badly.  The  bookcases  are  all  in  a  shock- 
ing state." 

"Are  they?"  he  said,  and  she  could  see  he  was  trying 
to  respond.  But  she  noted  with  disappointment  that  he 
was  no  longer  in  the  Micawber  mood. 

He  had  been  gone  for  some  time  and  the  house  was 
sunk  in  silence,  when,  answering  another  ring  at  the  bell, 
Wintergreen  found  Alice  on  the  doorstep.  She  no  longer 
wore  her  veil  and  her  face  was  ghastly  in  the  lamplight. 
But  it  was  quite  firm  and  tearless  now,  and  her  small  fig- 
ure had  an  air  of  dignity  about  it. 

Wintergreen,  who  had  been  about  to  exclaim  at  her 
reappearance,  was  awed  into  respectful  silence.  She 
stood  back  to  let  her  pass. 

"Will  you  bring  me  some  supper,  please,"  said  Alice 
with  the  air  of  a  princess.  "Is  the  doctor  in?"  she 
added  casually. 

"No,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen. 

But  at  that  moment  Jack  entered. 

Wintergreen  as  rapidly  as  possible  withdrew,  and  the 
husband  and  wife  went  into  the  dining-room  together. 

"Is  this  your  day  off,  may  I  ask  ?"  said  Jack.  "I  was 
surprised  to  find  you  had  gone  out  when  I  came  in  this 


170  WINTERGREEN 

morning.  I  had  met  Miss  Carmyle,  who  had  arrived 
yesterday,  and  she  wished  me  to  tell  you  that  she  was  com- 
ing to  call  this  afternoon." 

Thus  baldly  and  twenty-four  hours  late  she  heard  the 
news.  Jack  was  conscious  even  now  of  omissions,  but 
really  it  was  Alice's  fault  if  he  did  omit  things.  Why 
had  she  not  been  in  at  lunch-time  when  he  would  have 
told  her  properly? 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  Alice.  "I  am  sorry  you  were  sur- 
prised. I  had  not  realized  that  you  expected  me  to  ask 
for  leave  every  time  I  went  out  of  the  house.  I  have 
never  expected  nor  desired  such  consideration  from  you. 
But  although  I  was  not  present  when  you  returned  this 
morning  after  your  three  hours'  drive  with  Miss  Car- 
myle, I  received  her  message  all  right  and  left  one  for 
her." 

She  went  forward  to  the  fire  as  she  spoke  and  held  out 
her  hands  to  the  flames,  and  he,  about  to  burst  into  a 
blaze  of  anger,  saw  that  she  was  trembling  from  head  to 
foot. 

A  sudden  compunction  came  to  him.  She  was  so  small 
and  shabby-looking  to-night,  so  disheveled,  so  unlike  her- 
self. A  little  coil  of  her  hair  had  come  loose.  There 
was  a  dreary,  dejected  look  about  her.  And  after  all, 
she  was  the  one  woman  on  earth. 

"Alice,"  he  said,  suddenly  coming  over  to  the  fireplace 
beside  her,  "tell  me — where  in  the  world  have  you  been, 
child?" 

"In  hell,"  she  might  have  answered,  but  she  said  nothing 
aloud  till  she  could  command  her  voice  sufficiently  to 
speak  clearly  and  distinctly.  Then  she  spoke: 

"I  had  rather  not  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  unless  you  force 
me  to.  Of  course  if  you  insist " 


WINTERGREEN  HAS  A  TEA-PARTY      171 

"Oh,  by  no  means,"  he  said  turning  away  again.  "I  do 
not  need  to  ask.  You  have  been  with  your  friends  the 
Fortescues.  I  can  see  that  without  asking." 

"Pray  do  not  ask  then,"  she  said,  holding  her  head 
very  high.  "I  have  no  desire  that  you  should  say  one 
word  more  to  me  than  is  necessary." 

"Thank  God !"  said  Jack.    "Then  I  '11  say  good  night." 

And  he  marched  out  of  the  dining-room  ignoring  the 
supper-table.  His  action  was  the  more  impressive  that 
Alice  had  not  allowed  him  to  tell  her  that  he  had  just 
dined  at  Longshaws.  At  another  time  it  would  have 
touched  her  to  solicitude.  But  now  her  heart  was  as  hard 
as  Pharaoh's. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  frigidly,  without  turning  from 
the  fire. 

And  when  he  had  gone  she  ate  a  large  supper  herself. 
She  lingered  long  over  it  too.  She  had  much  to  think 
of,  much,  she  told  herself,  to  which  she  must  adjust  her 
mind.  That  night,  she  reflected,  would  see  the  end  of  an 
old  order  of  things.  It  would  mark  a  turning-point  in 
her  life.  She. had  been  young.  Now  she  was  going  to  be 
old.  Old  at  twenty-three.  It  was  rather  pathetic. 

"I  shall  always  remember  this  night,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. 

She  resolved  to  keep  it  as  an  anniversary  in  future.  Her 
mind  was  made  up.  She  had  decided  on  a  course  of 
action.  If  her  life  henceforth  was  to  be  all  a  pretense  no 
one — not  even  Jack — should  see  she  minded  it.  On  the 
morrow  she  would  come  down  to  breakfast,  eat  food, 
make  remarks  about  the  weather,  and  then  go  all  day 
wrapped  in  the  serene  dignity  of  one  who  expected 
nothing  more  from  fate.  There  was  melancholy  gratifi- 
cation in  the  prospect,  enhanced  by  the  thought  that  Jack 


172  WINTERGREEN 

would  be  ashamed  of  himself  and  Jimmy  feel  a  worm 
in  presence  of  her  calm  abstraction. 

Thus  established  for  good  above  the  winds  and  waves 
of  passion  Alice  at  last  went  upstairs  to  bed,  turning  out 
flickering  gas-jets  on  her  way  with  a  remorseless  air,  as 
though  they  had  been  love-lights. 


CHAPTER  X 

In  which  the  Rev.  Mr.   Pennifeather  Inadvertently 
Thickens  the  Plot 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD  had  been  out  when  Jimmy 
and  Jack  arrived  at  Longshaws,  but  they  had  been 
hailed  with  delight  by  the  master  of  the  house,  and  the 
three,  like  mice  at  play,  had  dined  uproariously  together. 
Almost  immediately  afterwards,  however,  Jack  had  de- 
parted, and  Jimmy  had  also  excused  herself.  She  had 
a  hundred  letters  to  write  she  said.  Mr.  Rutherford  thus 
was  left  all  alone  to  meet  his  wife.  That  lady  returned 
in  no  very  amiable  mood.  She  had  been  at  a  meeting 
which  she  described  with  some  heat,  at  which  Miss  Pen- 
nifeather had  taken  the  chair,  a  position  which  she  as 
lady  of  Longshaws  considered  should  have  been  occupied 
by  herself. 

It  had  also  been  arranged  in  opposition  to  her  wishes 
that  the  garden  fete  which  had  been  the  subject  of  the 
discussion  should  be  held  at  Pitcaple,  an  old  empty  house 
standing  in  neglected  grounds  about  a  mile  from  Cauld- 
stanes  and  belonging  to  an  absentee  landlord. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Rutherford,  "I  think  it  a 
very  good  plan.  What  was  your  alternative?" 

"To  have  it  here,  of  course,"  snapped  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford. 

"Then  thank  heaven  you  did  n't  carry  it !"  he  ex- 
claimed. "It  would  have  been  awful  to  have  it  here. 


174  WINTERGREEN 

Think  of  the  roses  and  the  rock-garden  all  trampled  over 
by  a  horde  of  savages !" 

"My  dear  Charles,"  said  his  wife,  "you  really  are  too 
absurd.  A  few  of  the  canaille  might  have  come,  of  course" 
(Mrs.  Rutherford  had  the  Fortescue  preference  for 
French  expressions),  "but  the  great  proportion  would 
have  been  of  the  elite.  Mrs.  Houghton  of  Hillside  and 
all  sorts  of  people  are  to  help.  But  I  might  have  known 
it,"  she  added;  "the  very  last  person  I  can  come  to  for 
sympathy  is  my  husband.  He  rejoices  whenever  he  hears 
that  I  have  been  worsted." 

"My  dear,"  said  her  husband,  "I  may  be  glad  that  Pit- 
caple  has  been  fixed  upon  and  yet  sorry  that  you  have 
been  worsted  in  the  matter.  Kindly,  therefore,  do  not 
allude  to  me  in  my  presence  in  the  third  person.  I  have 
a  very  strong  objection  to  it.  By  the  way,"  he  went  on 
quickly,  for  he  detested  altercations  and  always  avoided 
them  if  possible,  "talking  of  third  persons,  we  had  a  third 
at  dinner  to-night — the  doctor — what  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

The  diversion  was  entirely  successful. 

"The  doctor?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rutherford.  "How  in 
the  world  did  he  get  here?" 

"Walked  here  with  Jimmy  from  Cauldstanes,"  said 
Mr.  Rutherford. 

"From  Cauldstanes?"  exclaimed  his  wife. 

"Yes,  she  was  there  at  tea,"  said  Mr.  Rutherford,  "and 
as  the  motor  had  broken  down  the  doctor  walked  home 
with  her." 

"Really,  very  injudicious,"  replied  his  wife,  frowning, 
"in  his  position.  He  ought  to  have  known  better.  Why 
did  n't  Mrs.  Adair  at  least  come  too  ?" 

"Mrs.  Adair  was  n't  there,"  said  Mr.  Rutherford. 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          175 

"Not  there?"  exclaimed  his  wife. 

"No,  only  a  housekeeper,  a  friend  of  Jimmy's — called 
Wintergreen,"  he  replied. 

"A  housekeeper?  A  friend  of  Jimmy's?"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Charles,  this  is  really  too  much !  I  insist  upon 
your  talking  to  Jimmy.  She  has  no  knowledge  of  what 
is  fitting." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  never  saw  a  better 
made  frock  than  she  had  on  to-night." 

To  this  Mrs.  Rutherford  deigned  no  reply. 

"And  so,"  she  went  on,  "the  day  after  she  arrives,  di- 
rectly my  back  is  turned,  she  goes  off  to  Cauldstanes  to 
visit  him  tete-a-tete.  This  is  worse — far  worse  than  I 
had  ever  imagined.  If  I  had  had  any  thought  of  this  I 
would  never  have  consented  to  have  her  at  Longshaws." 

"Then  I  am  glad  you  had  none,  my  dear,"  said  Mr. 
Rutherford.  "People  often  get  on  much  better  when 
they  do  not  think.  That  at  least  has  been  my  experience." 

Jimmy's  "hundred  letters"  was  a  figure  of  speech.  She 
only  wrote  one,  but  it  was  one  in  a  hundred,  and  it  took 
her  as  long  and  gave  her  as  much  trouble  as  a  hundred 
ordinary  letters  would  have  given  her. 

When  it  had  been  written  and  rewritten  about  a  dozen 
times,  the  finished  copy  ran  as  follows : 

Longshaws,  May,  1919. 

Dear  Arthur:  Excuse  my  calling  you  this  once  again.  You 
will  be  surprised  to  get  a  letter  from  me,  but  I  feel  I  must  write. 
I  behaved  very  badly  to  you  this  afternoon.  You  will  say  this 
is  nothing  new,  but,  while  I  had  no  excuse  before,  perhaps,  I 
did  have  some  to-day,  and  I  wish  to  explain  myself.  I  was  so 
taken  by  surprise  when  I  found  you  in  the  kitchen  to-day  that 
I  lost  my  wits  completely — I  did  indeed.  And  afterwards  it 
would  have  been  awkward  to  explain  to  Wintergreen  that  my 
not  knowing  you  was  all  pretense.  But  I  cannot  sleep  to-night 
until  I  have  asked  you  to  forgive  me — not  for  the  past — I  know 


i  ;6  WINTERGREEN 

you  can  never  do  that,  but  for  to-day's  offense,  which  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  of.  And — is  this  too  much  to  ask? — I  want  your 
forgiveness  to  be  not  in  writing  but  by  word  of  mouth.  I  shall 
be  here  all  to-morrow  afternoon.  If  you  don't  come  I  shall 
understand  and  say  no  more  about  it.  But  you  will  come,  won't 
you — and  you  will  forgive  me — for  to-day's  I  mean.  I  ask  no 
more.  JIMMY. 

When  she  had  finished  and  addressed  this  to  Arthur 
Gardshore,  Esquire,  care  of  Dr.  Adair,  The  Bow  House, 
Cauldstanes,  she  put  it  into  another  larger  envelope  ad- 
dressed to  Wintergreen.  Into  this  she  also  slipped  an- 
other note. 

"Dear  Wintergreen,"  it  ran.  "Will  you  see  that  Mr. 
Gardshore  gets  this  as  soon  as  possible?  It  is  an  address 
he  wants  urgently.  Yours  sincerely, 

JIMMY  CARMYLE." 

When  she  had  sat  some  time  in  contemplation  of  this 
envelope,  she  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

Maud  appeared. 

Maud  was  Mrs.  Rutherford's  maid. 

"Is  there  any  one  who  could  take  this  note  for  me  to 
the  Bow  House,  Cauldstanes?"  said  Jimmy.  "I  want  it 
to  get  there  to-night." 

"Oh  yes,  miss,"  said  the  girl  pleasantly,  for  she  had 
fallen  in  love  with  Jimmy,  her  hair,  her  complexion,  espe- 
cially her  clothes.  "Mrs.  Clapperton  's  just  going.  I 
can  ask  her  to  take  it  in  on  her  way  home." 

Mrs.  Clapperton  was  a  charwoman  who  had  been  help- 
ing by  the  day.  She  was  nearly  the  facsimile  and  alto- 
gether the  friend  of  Mrs.  Dick. 

"Wintergreen  ?"  she  exclaimed  when  she  saw  the  name 
on  the  envelope.  "I  'm  no'  wantin'  nae  troke  wi'  her. 
Wha  's  writin'  to  Wintergreen  ?" 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          177 

"Miss  Carmyle,"  said  the  maid.  "And  it's  urgent, 
mind !  See  that  she  gets  it  to-night." 

She  slipped  a  shilling  into  her  hand. 

"And  that 's  for  your  trouble,"  she  added.  Then  she 
tripped  away  again. 

The  woman,  who  was  already  dressed  for  the  road,  put 
the  letter  into  the  pocket  of  her  rain-coat. 

"Jane  Dick  would  tear  me  limb  frae  limb  if  she  thocht 
I  was  cairryin'  letters  to  yon  woman,"  she  said. 

"Why  that?"  said  Susan,  the  cook,  who  was  always 
brief  and  to  the  point. 

"She 's  a  brazen-faced  bizzum — that 's  why,"  said  Mrs. 
Clapperton. 

"So  's  Jane  if  ye  come  to  that,"  replied  Susan. 

"Jane  is  what  she  appears  to  be  onyway,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Clapperton,  and  with  this  mysterious  utterance  she  went 
out  into  the  night. 

Wintergreen  was  in  the  act  of  setting  her  alarm-clock 
by  the  one  in  the  kitchen  when  she  was  disturbed  by 
another  ring  at  the  bell,  and  when  she  answered  it  she 
found  Mrs.  Clapperton  stand  lowering  at  her  on  the  door- 
step. 

"Here  's  a  letter  for  ye,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Wintergreen  politely,  and  she  held 
out  her  hand  for  the  letter. 

"No'  yet,"  said  the  messenger,  withholding  it;  "ye 
needna  think  I  'm  Jane  Dick.  I  '11  say  my  say  an'  no  man 
nor  woman — be  they  what  they  may — shall  hinder  me." 

"Say  on  then,"  said  Wintergreen,  "but  be  as  quick  as 
you  can  about  it.  If  you  have  no  work  to  do  to-morrow 
morning  I  have,  and  I  've  just  been  setting  my  alarm  at 
five  o'clock." 

"Ay,  ye 're  very  weel  pleased  wi'  yersel',  I  suppose," 


178  WINTERGREEN 

said  Mrs.  Clapperton,  "comin'  in  like  a  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothin'  amang  the  workin'  weemen,  risin'  afore  them, 
undersellin'  them,  daein'  as  much  work  as  three  folk  they 
tell  me,  takin'  the  bread  oot  o'  the  mooths  o'  the  char- 
weemen.  But  there  's  mair  than  me  that 's  no'  as  pleased 
wi'  ye  as  ye  are  yersel'.  Ye  may  find  yersel'  some  day 
gettin'  drummed  oot  o'  Cauldstanes  for  yer  trouble." 

With  these  words  and  without  waiting  for  any  reply, 
Mrs.  Clapperton  took  her  departure,  after  flinging  the 
letter  down  on  the  door-step  in  front  of  its  addressee  like 
a  challenge. 

Quite  unperturbed,  however,  Wintergreen  picked  it  up, 
and,  locking  the  door,  retired  once  more  to  the  kitchen. 
Then  she  opened  the  outer  envelope  and  read  the  note. 

"When  did  he  ask  for  this  address  ?"  she  said  to  herself 
when  she  had  finished  it. 

She  remembered  that  she  had  never  been  absent  during 
the  interview  between  her  two  guests,  that  she  had  heard 
everything  they  had  said  to  one  another  from  the  very 
first  to  the  very  last. 

"Address  ?"  she  said  again.  "He  asked  for  no  address. 
Well,  anyhow,  it 's  none  of  my  business." 

And  it  would  do  to  give  the  letter  to  him  to-morrow, 
she  reflected.  Surely  it  would  do  to-morrow.  She  could 
and  would  not  mount  those  two  flights  of  stairs  again  to 
Gardshore's  room.  There  was  a  limit  to  a  woman's 
powers  of  endurance,  and  hers,  for  that  day  at  least,  had 
been  already  reached. 

After  she  was  in  bed,  however,  she  kept  seeing  as  in  a 
nightmare  the  words  of  the  note  recording  themselves 
upon  the  darkness. 

"Will  you  see  ...  as  soon  as  possible  .  .  .  urgently." 

The  last  word  was  the  worst.     It  kept  repeating  itself. 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          179 

At  last  in  despair  she  got  up,  lit  a  candle,  attired  herself 
in  a  shepherd-tartan  dressing  gown,  gave  a  shake  of  ad- 
justment to  her  four  short,  thick  plaits  of  hair,  and 
slipped  on  scarlet  bedroom  slippers.  Thus  accoutered  she 
took  the  note  and  went  downstairs  and  upstairs  till  she 
reached  its  destination. 

There  was  a  light  under  the  door  still,  and,  listening 
for  a  moment,  she  heard  footsteps  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room  within. 

They  stopped  when  she  knocked. 

"Come  in,"  said  Gardshore's  voice. 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  entering,  "why  are  you  not  in  bed  ? 
You  promised ' 

She  stopped,  for  his  face  was  tragic  as  when  she  had 
first  seen  it.  He  wore  a  dingy  gray  dressing-gown  too, 
which  made  him  seem  more  gaunt  than  ever. 

"Don't  scold,"  he  said,  trying  to  smile.  "I  can't  bear 
it  to-night.  I  went  to  bed.  I  did  really.  But  sleep  I 
cannot.  I  am  going  mad,  I  think." 

"Oh,  no,  you  're  not,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen  quietly. 
"Not  at  least  until  you  have  read  this  note.  It 's  from 
Miss  Carmyle — about  an  address  you  wanted — urgently." 

For  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  help  saying  this.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  while  she  spoke. 

"He  never  heard  of  that  address  either,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  he  said  nevertheless. 

But  she  saw  that  he  had  paled  to  the  very  lips. 

She  gave  him  the  letter,  and  then,  going  over  to  the 
fire,  pretended  to  mend  it  while  she  watched  him  reading 
it. 

He  began  it  standing,  but  almost  immediately  sat  down 
like  one  who  is  amazed  beyond  measure.  Gradually  as 


180  WINTERGREEN 

he  read  a  slow  flush  mounted  in  his  cheeks,  a  new  light 
came  into  his  eyes,  a  smile  crept  about  his  lips.  Then 
suddenly — so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  that  she  was 
startled  out  of  her  wits — "Jimmy!"  he  exclaimed.  It 
was  a  cry  of  ecstatic  rapture.  Then  he  passionately  kissed 
the  letter. 

"I  've  done  it  now,"  said  Wintergreen  to  herself. 
"He  '11  never  forgive  me  for  seeing  this." 

But  again  she  was  mistaken.  Even  as  her  mind  mis- 
gave her  he  looked  up  and  saw  her  standing  staring  at 
him  on  the  hearth-rug.  Waving  the  letter  wildly  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"You  think  me  mad  now,  don't  you?"  he  said.  "You 
must.  But  it 's  good  to  be  mad ;  it 's  good  to  be  mad !" 

Then  before  she  guessed  what  was  going  to  happen 
he  was  dancing  round  the  room,  his  long  dressing-gown 
flying  behind  him,  a  weird  figure  in  his  gaunt  dishevel- 
ment. 

Next  moment  he  had  come  to  a  standstill  in  front  of 
her  and  had  seized  her  by  both  hands. 

"Wintergreen,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  must  tell  you." 

But  drawing  her  hands  away  she  held  them  over  her 
ears. 

"I  want  to  be  told  nothing,  sir,"  she  said.  "You  might 
regret  it  afterwards  and  I  have  no  right  to  know.  I  am 
glad  if  you  are  glad.  Now  good  night,  sir,  and  go  to 
sleep." 

"Sleep !'*••  he  exclaimed.  "Did  you  say  sleep?  Why  I 
feel  as  though  I  could  dance  all  night." 

"Well,  all  I  ask  is ;  don't  dance  the  ceiling  down  on  my 
master  and  mistress  below  you,  sir,"  she  answered. 

With  these  words  she  left  him,  went  downstairs  again, 
and  climbed  the  other  stair  to  her  own  room. 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          181 

"It 's  like  Mother  Hubbard  and  her  dog,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  mounted  into  bed  again. 

Next  morning  at  breakfast  Alice  carried  out  the  pro- 
gram that  she  had  laid  down  for  herself  with  a  certain 
measure  of  success.  She  ate  largely  of  rolls  and  mar- 
malade, and  had  two  cups  of  the  excellent  coffee  which 
Wintergreen  had  prepared.  She  also  remarked  that  it 
seemed  to  have  been  raining  as  the  pavements  outside 
were  rather  wet,  and  later  on  she  opined  that  it  might 
possibly  rain  again  as  the  swallows  were  flying  rather  low 
that  morning. 

Jack,  after  regarding  her  each  time  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  suitably  answered  each  of  these  remarks,  burying 
himself  between  times  in  a  newspaper  and  hurrying  away 
from  the  table  at  the  first  possible  moment.  As  he  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  however,  Alice  called  him  back. 

"If  you  can  spare  the  motor  this  afternoon  for  an 
hour,"  she  said,  "I  should  like  to  call  at  Longshaws  on 
my  way  to  Hillside.  You  remember  there  is  a  tennis- 
party  there  to-day.  By  the  way,  can  you  go  ?" 

"No,"  said  Jack  shortly,  "and  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  can't 
let  you  have  the  motor  either.  Alexander  says  it  won't 
be  ready  to  go  out  till  to-morrow  though  he  has  been 
working  at  it  all  night.  I  shall  have  to  bike  to-day." 

"Ah,  then  I  suppose  I  may  have  a  cab  ?"  she  said.  "I 
can't  bike  in  my  best  dress." 

"Oh,  certainly,  have  a  cab,"  he  answered  with  a  shrug 
and  then,  without  farewell,  he  left  her. 

It  was  strange,  he  reflected,  as  he  pulled  on  his  coat 
in  the  hall,  unhelped  by  her  hands,  unhindered  by  her 
caresses,  how  her  simplest  words  that  day  had  power  to 
anger  him,  how  even  the  request  for  the  cab  had  infuri- 


182  WINTERGREEN 

ated  him.  It  was  as  though  behind  it  were  an  outraged 
battalion  of  thoughts  and  memories  of  past  times,  past 
resolves,  past  ideals,  which  seemed  all  to  be  toppling  to- 
gether now  into  dire  confusion.  He  went  off  disconsolate 
upon  his  bicycle,  while  Alice,  triumphant  yet  with  lean- 
ness in  her  soul,  sat  still  in  front  of  her  Queen  Anne 
teapot,  gazing  drearily  at  her  distorted  image  in  it. 

She  did  not  go  out  that  morning  though  she  longed  to 
do  so.  From  her  new  spiritual  platform  she  saw  that 
she  had  made  a  fool  of  herself  the  day  before,  that  she 
must  at  least  have  made  an  extraordinary  first  impression 
upon  her  new  cook-housekeeper.  Instead  of  being  there 
to  instruct  her,  she  had  absented  herself.  When  she  had 
returned  she  had  retired  to  an  attic  and  then  gone  out 
again.  The  new  cook-housekeeper  probably  thought  by 
now  that  she  was  an  incipient  imbecile.  The  sooner  that 
she  effaced  this  impression  the  better.  She  attached  her- 
self therefore  to  Wintergreen  and  helped  her  with  the 
bookcases. 

This  was  well,  for  Wintergreen's  helper  of  the  day  be- 
fore had,  it  seemed,  struck  work. 

"Books?"  he  exclaimed  when  she  reminded  him  of  his 
tacit  promise.  "No — I  have  done  with  books!  I  must 
go  down  to  the  sea  again — to  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky !" 

Then  off  he  went  and  was  seen  no  more  till  lunch-time. 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  household  of  erratic  beings?" 
said  Wintergreen  to  herself  as  she  pulled  on  her  working- 
gloves. 

At  lunch-time  Alice  also  struck  work.  The  cab  was 
coming  for  her  at  two,  and  she  had  to  dress.  It  was  a 
very  different  Alice,  as  Wintergreen  reflected,  who  came 
down  that  day  when  the  cab  was  announced,  to  the  des- 
perate fugitive  of  the  day  before.  But  the  Alice  of  yes- 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          183 

terday  had  been  the  more  lovable  of  the  two.  To-day's 
was  rather  a  hard  little  person  though  she  looked  very 
smart  in  a  lavender  coat- frock  and  a  hat  covered  with 
flowers  of  exactly  the  same  shade. 

"It 's  my  color,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  stood  once 
more  before  her  mirror,  and  it  pleased  her  to  see  that 
her  eyes  were  bright  and  her  cheeks  pink. 

"Being  a  hollow  sham  suits  me,"  she  added,  and  pic- 
tured herself  entering  the  drawing-room  at  Longshaws 
and  making  a  sensation  there,  patronizing  Jimmy,  as 
surely  she  had  a  right  to  do,  getting  a  little  of  her  own 
back  from  this  odious  young  woman.  Her  only  regret 
when  she  started  was  that  Jack  was  not  to  be  there  to 
see  her  deal  with  this  person  who  had  bewitched  him. 
She  remembered  books  in  which  she  had  seen  similar  sit- 
uations described,  and  realized  that  she  had  been  allotted 
here  the  part  of  prima  donna.  She  was  Jack's  wife. 
No  one  could  alter  that.  Thus  on  her  lonely  exalted  pin- 
nacle a  few  frosted  flowers  bloomed  in  spite  of  every- 
thing. 

In  the  frenzy  of  composition  Jimmy  had  not  taken  into 
account  that  it  might  be  difficult  for  her  to  carry  out  her 
part  of  her  own  plan.  When  she  had  been  writing  her 
letter  to  Gardshore  she  had  been  like  Alice,  superior  to 
mundane  things.  She  had  seen  only  Gardshore  in  all 
the  world,  the  man  she  had  loved  for  years,  for  whom 
she  had  recklessly  broken  loose  from  everything  when 
she  had  read  Jack's  letter  about  him  at  Alimara,  for 
whose  sake  she  had  come  to  Longshaws,  and  whom,  on 
the  first  occasion  of  their  meeting,  she  had,  because  of 
sheer  nervousness,  doubtless  again  offended  mortally. 

As  she  walked  home  miserably  beside  Jack  through  the 


184  WINTERGREEN 

clover-fields  she  had  taken  some  comfort  from  the 
thought  that,  if  she  were  not  mistaken,  Gardshore  had 
seemed  as  nervous  as  herself.  But  then — was  he  not  a 
nervous  wreck?  Jack  had  told  her  that  in  his  letter. 
Not  she — not  her  desertion  then — but  the  war  had 
brought  him  to  his  present  pass.  What  had  had  power 
to  alter  her  whole  existence  had  probably  been  for  him 
only  a  paltry  incident  long  forgotten  amid  the  awful  and 
vital  experiences  which  had  since  supervened  in  his  life. 
His  love  for  her  had  doubtless  long  ago  disappeared  in 
the  great  maelstrom  into  which  he  had  been  plunged.  It 
was  now  crushed  and  dead,  or  it  belonged  to  some  other 
woman. 

This  last  was  the  worst.  She  hated  to  think  of  it. 
Yet  she  could  not  think  of  anything  else.  All  the  time 
she  was  talking  to  her  two  companions  at  the  dinner- 
table  her  mind  was  in  a  surge  of  misery.  In  her  despe- 
rate uncertainty  she  decided  that  her  only  chance — if  she 
were  not  to  drift  away  from  him  for  ever — was  to  seize  the 
advantage  which  that  afternoon  had  given  her,  and,  slight 
as  it  was,  immediately  make  the  most  of  it.  Were  they 
to  meet  again  by  any  chance  before  she  had  done  this, 
it  would  be  too  late  to  recover  the  position  she  had  lost, 
or  to  gain  anything  by  it.  She  had  done  it  therefore. 
She  had  sent  the  note. 

Nothing  now  remained  for  her  to  do  but  to  wait  for 
the  answer.  Upon  it  would  depend  everything.  Would 
he  write  or  would  He  come?  Surely,  surely  he  would 
come.  Her  whole  heart  bounded  to  meet  him. 

But  while  it  was  all  very  well  for  her  heart  to  bound 
to  meet  him,  she  found  next  morning  that  it  would  not 
be  so  easy  to  meet  him  herself.  At  breakfast  Mrs.  Ruth- 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          185 

erford  announced  that  she  intended  to  take  her  that  after- 
noon to  Hillside  to  play  tennis. 

"I  have  told  Mrs.  Houghton  that  you  are  a  crack 
player,"  she  said,  "and  she  has  asked  several  people  spe- 
cially to  meet  you." 

"That 's  awfully  good  of  her,"  said  Jimmy  ruefully. 

"You  are  a  crack  player,  are  n't  you  ?"  said  Mrs.  Ruth- 
erford sharply. 

Jimmy  laughed. 

"Yes,  though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't,"  she  said.  "But 
I  half  thought  Mrs.  Adair  might  be  here  to-day." 

"Mrs.  Adair  will  be  at  Hillside,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford. 
"You  will  see  her  there.  My  cousins  told  me  she  was 
going." 

She  pursed  up  her  lips  after  she  had  said  this,  to  pre- 
vent herself  saying  anything  more.  And  as  there  were 
dozens  of  things  she  would  like  to  have  said,  this  self- 
restraint  on  her  part  should  be  recorded  to  her  credit. 
But  Jimmy  only  appreciated  the  fact  that  to  evade  the 
tennis-party  would  require  all  the  ingenuity  she  pos- 
sessed. At  the  same  time  she  recognized  that  there 
might  be  no  need  for  her  to  do  anything  in  the  matter. 
A  note  might  come  during  the  morning  or  a  telephone 
message.  She  said  nothing  therefore. 

But  hour  after  hour  passed  and  there  was  no  telephone 
message,  and  with  each  hour  her  hope  grew  until  it  be- 
came at  last  a  certainty.  He  was  coming  himself,  and 
in  view  of  that  great  event,  whoever  had  been  invited  to 
meet  her,  wild  horses,  she  resolved,  should  not  drag  her 
to  any  tennis-party.  Go  to  Hillside  she  would  not.  She 
admitted  to  herself,  however,  that  she  must  proceed  tact- 
fully. At  lunch-time,  therefore,  with  considerable  effort, 


i86  WINTERGREEN 

for  she  had  an  excellent  appetite  and  there  was  an  extra 
good  lunch,  she  confined  herself  to  a  water-biscuit  and 
complained  of  an  overpowering  headache. 

Recommended  to  lie  down  and  take  phenacetin,  she 
said  that  phenacetin  never  did  her  any  good.  Fresh  air 
was  the  only  cure.  She  would,  therefore,  if  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford did  n't  mind,  spend  the  afternoon  in  the  summer- 
house  in  the  rose-garden. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  did  mind  very  much.  She  disap- 
proved of  Jimmy  in  many  ways,  but  she  could  not  deny 
that  she  was  very  effective  socially.  She  would  be  sure, 
with  her  tennis-playing  and  her  clothes,  to  do  her  credit 
at  Hillside.  Besides  people  had  been  asked  to  meet  her. 
In  face  of  total  collapse,  however,  there  is  never  any 
good  saying  anything.  Mrs.  Rutherford  said  nothing  but 
"If  you  want  anything  tell  Maud.  Eliza  goes  out  to- 
day, and  that  new  under-housemaid,  Thomasina,  is  a  fool." 

Jimmy,  therefore,  when  the  motor  containing  her  host 
and  hostess  had  left  the  house — early  because  of  calls 
they  had  to  make  on  the  way  to  Hillside — told  Maud  that, 
ill  as  she  was,  if  a  gentleman  from  Cauldstanes  called  to 
see  her  she  would  be  at  home  to  him.  She  would,  she 
added,  be  found  in  the  rose-garden  in  the  summer-house 
there.  To  no  one  else  would  she  be  at  home  on  any 
account. 

Maud  replied  in  her  usual  satisfactory  manner;  and 
even  more  eagerly  than  before,  for  she  scented  a  ro- 
mance. Certainly ;  yes,  she  would  see  to  it. 

Jimmy  then,  confident  that  Maud  would  keep  her 
word,  took  some  light  literature  with  her  as  a  stage 
property,  and  went  out  to  the  summer-house  where  in  a 
fever  of  anxiety  and  suspense  and  fear  and  hope  she 
established  herself. 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          187 

Maud  meanwhile  carried  out  her  orders.  As  she  had 
a  sewing-room  to  herself  and  lived  aloof  from  the  other 
servants  she  did  not  know  that  Eliza  was  going  out.  She 
therefore  gave  Eliza  the  instructions,  and  afterwards  re- 
turned to  her  own  place  secure  in  the  belief  that  Eliza, 
who  was  a  housemaid  well  versed  in  all  the  finesses  of  her 
calling,  would  carry  them  out  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
persons.  Eliza,  being  a  woman  who  prided  herself  on 
keeping  herself  to  herself,  accepted  the  orders  without 
comment  and  passed  them  on  to  Thomasina.  It  was  on 
the  fool  Thomasina,  therefore,  as  so  often  happens  in 
this  world,  that,  unknown  to  Maud  or  to  Jimmy,  the  re- 
sponsibility finally  rested. 

But  Thomasina  was  totally  unconcerned.  She  thought 
nothing  of  it,  and  having  been  left  by  Eliza  to  make  up 
pats  of  butter  for  tea — to  her  a  major  operation — she  was 
far  more  absorbed  in  doing  that  than  in  anything  else 
when  the  bell  rang. 

A  cab  was  at  the  door  and  a  smart  little  lady  in  lav- 
ender was  standing  on  the  door-step. 

"Is  Mrs.  Rutherford  at  home?"  she  asked. 

"No,  m'm,"  said  Thomasina.  "She  's  out  at  a  tennis- 
party  at  Hillside." 

The  desire  to  diffuse  as  much  information  as  possible, 
whether  she  were  asked  for  it  or  not,  was  one  of  her 
ineradicable  characteristics. 

"And  so  's  Mr.  Rutherford,"  she  added. 

"Then  Miss  Carmyle  will  be  out  too?"  said  the  smart 
little  lady,  taking  out  a  smart  little  card-case. 

"Yes,  she  's  out,"  said  Thomasina,  who  was  always  lit- 
erally truthful.  "But  only  in  the  summer-house  in  the 
rose-garden." 

The  visitor  paused  in  the  act  of  extracting  cards. 


i88  WINTERGREEN 

"Oh,  indeed,"  she  said.    "Then  can  I  see  her?" 

"No,  m'm,"  said  Thomasina.  "I  'm  sorry  but  ye  can't. 
The  orders  is  that  she  '11  see  no  one,  m'm,  but  a  gentleman 
from  Cauldstanes." 

At  this  the  waiting  driver,  who  was  a  youth  with  a 
sense  of  humor,  emitted  an  irrepressible  snort  of  mirth 
and  then  pretended  it  was  the  horse. 

"Whoa  there — whoa!"  he  said  to  that  astonished  ani- 
mal, as  he  with  difficulty  recovered  himself. 

His  fare,  however,  was  not  amused. 

"Oh,  indeed,"  she  said,  frowning  as  she  placed  her 
cards  on  the  tray  presented  to  her.  Then  turning  abruptly 
she  reentered  the  cab,  which  soon  had  disappeared  down 
the  drive  again. 

Thomasina  then  returned  to  her  pats  of  butter  and  had 
made  perhaps  six  more  when  the  bell  rang  again. 

A  man  this  time  stood  on  the  door-step  who  had  just 
dismounted  from  a  bicycle  which  he  was  still  holding, 
a  tall  man  in  gray  with  a  black  straw  hat.  The  most 
noticeable  thing  about  him  to  an  ordinary  observer,  after 
his  genial,  weather-beaten  countenance,  was  the  parson's 
collar  which  he  was  wearing.  But  Thomasina  was  not  an 
ordinary  observer. 

"Your  mistress  in  ?"  said  the  new-comer  pleasantly. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Thomasina.  "She  's  gone  to  a  tennis- 
party  at  Hillside,  and  so  has  Mr.  Rutherford.  And  Miss 
Carmyle  's  out  too,  jist  in  the  summer-house  in  the  rose- 
garden.  Would  ye  like  to  see  her  ?" 

The  new-comer  smiled  slightly  and  hesitated.  But,  he 
reflected,  he  would  like  to  see  this  young  lady  very  much. 
He  had  heard  that  she  was  very  beautiful,  and  beauty  was 
not  so  rife  in  his  world  that  he  should  miss  any  chance 
of  seeing  it.  Moreover  it  occurred  to  him  he  had  heard 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          189 

that  Miss  Carmyle  sang.  For  another  reason  it  might  be 
well  to  take  this  interview  when  he  could  get  it. 

"Yes,  very  much,"  he  said.  "The  question  is,  would 
Miss  Carmyle  care  to  see  me?"  ^ 

"Are  ye  from  Cauldstanes  ?"  said  Thomasina  anx- 
iously. 

"Yes,"  was  the  puzzled  reply. 

"Ah,  then,"  said  Thomasina  relieved,  "she  '11  see  ye, 
sir.  No  fears." 

In  her  most  businesslike  manner  then  she  escorted  him 
through  the  hall,  through  the  shrubbery,  and  so  to  the 
rose-garden. 

Jimmy  in  her  summer-house  heard  their  footsteps  on 
the  gravel  path,  Thomasina' s  voice  as  she  asked  for  the 
visitor's  name,  and  the  murmur  of  a  man's  voice  in  reply. 
Half-fainting  with  all  manner  of  emotions,  she  was 
standing  at  the  entrance  of  the  summer-house  when 
Thomasina,  emerging  from  the  shrubbery  opposite,  an- 
nounced : 

"Mr.  Pennifeather,  miss." 

The  new  under-housemaid's  adventures  were  not  yet 
over.  She  had  only  made  about  four  pats  more  when 
the  door-bell  rang  again.  Another  gentleman  stood  out- 
side holding  on  to  another  bicycle.  Rather  shabby — in 
old  baggy  clothes — rather  a  queer-like  gentleman.  He 
spoke  queer-like  too — very  hoarse  and  thick. 

"Is  Miss  Carmyle "  he  began.  Then  he  seemed  to 

lose  his  breath. 

Thomasina  did  not  like  the  look  of  him. 

"No,  sir,  I  'm  sorry,"  she  said.    "She 's  not  in." 

"Not  in?"  he  exclaimed. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Thomasina. 


190  WINTERGREEN 

"But  surely,"  he  persisted,  "she  is  in  the  garden." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  Thomasina,  who  could  never  tell 
a  lie.  "But  she  's  engaged,  sir,  with  a  gentleman  from 
Cauldstanes." 

"And  did  she  leave  me  no  message — nothing?"  he  de- 
manded. "My  name  is  Gardshore.  Did  she  leave  no 
word  for  me  ?" 

"No,  sir,  she  said  no  names,"  said  Thomasina.  "But 
if  there  's  a  message  I  could  take  it,  sir." 

"Certainly  not,"  was  the  answer,  "and  forget  that  I 
called  too." 

He  slipped  half  a  crown  into  her  hand. 

"Tell  no  one  I  have  been  here,"  he  said. 

"Right,  sir,"  said  Thomasina.    "I  'm  very  sorry,  sir." 

"Silence,  girl!"  he  exclaimed  savagely  and  ungrate- 
fully. 

Then  turning  on  his  heel  he  remounted  his  bicycle  and 
in  two  seconds  had  disappeared  down  the  drive. 

"My !"  said  Thomasina  to  herself  as  she  repaired  once 
more  to  her  pats  of  butter.  "I  'm  no'  surprised  she  took 
the  other.  That 's  an  awful-like  man  that." 

By  the  time  Thomasina,  strong  in  the  consciousness  of 
having  discharged  with  thorough  efficiency  the  duties  al- 
lotted to  her  that  afternoon,  was  bearing  tea  out  to  the 
rose-garden  where  Jimmy,  half-frenzied,  was  still  enter- 
taining Mr.  Pennifeather,  the  awful-like  man  who  had 
been  dismissed  was  once  again  in  his  own  room,  and 
seated  at  his  writing-desk. 

But  he  was  not  writing,  only  sitting  at  it  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands. 

"I  must  remain  sane,"  he  was  repeating  to  himself.  "I 
must  remain  sane." 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          191 

Adair's  reputation  might  depend  upon  it.  Already  he 
seemed  to  be  regardless  of  everything,  yet  it  was  incred- 
ible that  that  girl  at  the  door  did  not  know  his  name.  She 
had  been  an  elaborate  liar.  Any  one  could  see  that.  He 
• — Gardshore — had  not  been  the  only  one  who  had  paid 
her  that  afternoon.  O  dire  humiliating  thought!  Did 
Jimmy  really  think  that  he  would  wait  to  take  his  turn 
until  her  new  lover  had  had  his  ?  Did  she  write  to  Adair 
too  last  night?  Oh,  he  could  laugh  if  he  had  not  to  weep. 

And  he  who  thought  the  Great  Ones  had  done  their 
worst.  Bah!  All  that  they  had  done  before  had  been 
mere  child's  play.  Yes ;  he  was  doomed  to  carry  out  his 
own  plan;  to  the  last  detail  the  ghost-act  had  to  be  per- 
formed, after  all — after  last  night.  Oh,  it  was  damned 
cruel!  .  .  . 

Yet  even  in  these  depths  he  had  glimmerings  of  his  old 
self-detachment.  Why  was  he  so  angry  ?  he  asked  him- 
self. How  could  he  expect  that  she  could  receive  the  old 
love  at  the  same  time  with  the  new  ?  And  she  had  meant 
to  be  kind.  It  had  made  her  miserable  to  see  him  such 
an  abject  wretch.  She  had  wanted  to  do  what  she  could 
for  him,  and  her  plan  had  miscarried.  Or  no — it  had 
succeeded.  For  now  she  would  no  longer  worry.  She 
would  never  know  he  had  come,  or  that  he  had  ever 
wanted  to  come.  She  had  done  her  part.  She  would  be 
satisfied. 

Miss  Pennifeather  was  the  first  to  arrive  home  at  the 
manse  that  evening.  She  was  sitting  in  her  evening- 
dress  reading  the  "British  Weekly"  when  her  brother 
came  in.  She  prided  herself  upon  the  fact  that  never 
in  her  life  had  she  had  a  love-affair.  She  had  sandy  hair 
and  eyebrows,  white  eyelashes  and  pale  eyes.  But  as  she 


192  WINTERGREEN 

made  up  in  usefulness  for  her  lack  of  personal  attractive- 
ness, so  she  made  up  in  energy  for  her  lack  of  color. 
She  was  forever  on  the  move  and  keeping  others  moving. 
Her  name,  Patience,  was  the  last  that  should  have  been 
given  to  her.  She  had  once  on  a  public  platform  been 
alluded  to  as  a  dynamic  power,  and,  though  she  never 
mentioned  this,  she  had  never  forgotten  it.  She  was  de- 
voted to  her  somewhat  dreamy  brother,  and,  though  he 
found  her  overstimulating  at  times  and  likely  to  go  off 
at  tangents  in  a  disconcerting  manner  at  the  beck  of  her 
own  conscience,  he  was  very  fond  of  her. 

"I  sometimes  look  at  you,  Patience,  my  dear,"  he  said 
once,  "and  think  what  an  awful  thing  it  would  have  been 
if  all  that  driving  force  in  you  which  you  use  for  good 
had  been  turned  instead  to  evil  purposes." 

She  looked  up  with  eager  welcome  in  her  eyes  when 
he  came  in. 

"Well,  Patience,"  he  said,  "how  have  you  enjoyed 
yourself  ?" 

"At  Hillside?  Oh,  thoroughly,"  she  said,  flinging 
away  her  paper.  "It  was  a  splendid  party.  I  played 
three  games  of  bowls  with  Mr.  Apsley  against  his  wife 
and  another  man  and  beat  them  hollow.  Then  I  went 
the  round  of  the  greenhouses  and  all  the  grounds  with 
Miss  Meares,  and  heard  all  she  had  to  say  about  her  visit 
to  Russia,  and  last  but  not  least  I  had  a  thorough-going, 
out  and  out,  complete  row  with  Mrs.  Rutherford." 

"Row?"  he  interrupted.    "But  wasn't  that  a  pity?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  his  sister.  "We  each  said  all  we  wanted 
to  say,  which  otherwise  would  never  have  been  said  at 
all,  and  then  we  tacitly  begged  each  other's  pardon.  I 
told  her  I  had  had  toothache  all  night,  and  she  said  she 
had  been  worried  out  of  her  life  lately.  We  are  more 


THE  REV.  MR.  PENNIFEATHER          193 

friendly  now  than  we  were  before  we  started.  Indeed 
before  we  parted  we  were  quite  confidential.  She  told 
me  quite  a  number  of  things — but  perhaps  I  had  better 
not  tell  you " 

"Oh,  no,  please  don't,"  cried  Mr.  Pennifeather,  waving 
off  all  communications  with  both  hands.  "Let  me  rather 
tell  you  something!  I  have  secured  a  splendid  joint- 
secretary  for  the  fete.  She  says  she  does  n't  know  our 
ways,  but  I  told  her  that  would  be  an  asset.  The  fact 
that  she  is  an  outsider  will  make  it  easier  for  her  to  do 
the  work,  and  the  less  she  knows  of  our  ways  the  better. 
She  will  be  able  to  take  us  out  of  old  grooves.  She  is — 
so  far  as  I  can  see — exactly  the  person  you  want ;  young, 
beautiful,  gifted,  enthusiastic,  wealthy  probably " 

"James,"  interrupted  Patience,  "who,  may  I  ask,  is  this 
person  ?" 

"Did  I  not  say?  How  stupid  of  me,"  he  laughed.  "I 
become  more  forgetful  every  day.  It  is  Mr.  Rutherford's 
ward — from  Alimara  in  India — I  had  tea  with  her  to-day 
at  Longshaws — Miss  Carmyle." 

For  a  moment  Miss  Pennifeather  gazed  at  him  in 
speechless  horror.  Then — "James !"  she  exclaimed. 
"What  in  the  world  did  you  ask  her  for?" 

"Because  of  the  reasons  I  have  given,"  he  said,  be- 
wildered. "Why  should  she  not  be  asked?" 

"Oh,  why  did  I  not  insist  on  telling  you  before?"  cried 
Miss  Pennifeather.  "This  comes  of  allowing  you  to  ward 
off  things.  You're  always  either  warding  off  things  or 
plunging  into  them.  James,  James!  Why  did  you  take 
such  a  step  without  first  consulting  me?  Do  you  know 
why  Miss  Carmyle  came  to  Longshaws?  I  had  heard 
rumors  of  it  before,  but  to-day  Mrs.  Rutherford  told  me 
all  about  it.  She  came  simply  to  carry  on  a  flirtation 


194  WINTERGREEN 

with  the  doctor  begun  in  India  when  he  was  there.  They 
were  the  talk  of  the  place  at  Alimara,  and  soon  here  it 
will  be  the  same." 

"My  dear  Patience,  I  hope  for  the  credit  of  the  neigh- 
borhood that  it  will  not,"  said  Mr.  Penni feather  with 
unwonted  heat.  "I  talked  with  Miss  Carmyle  for  an 
hour  and  a  half  this  afternoon,  and  I  simply  refuse  to 
believe  that  she  would  do  or  think  anything  discreditable. 
As  for  the  doctor,  I  have  known  him  for  a  long  time. 
I  know  him  to  be  devoted  to  his  wife.  I  spurn  the  idea 
that  there  is  anything  unworthy  in  his  friendship  with 
this  charming  girl,  and  what 's  more,  I  am  convinced  that 
his  wife  thinks  the  same  as  I  do." 

Patience  here  gave  vent  to  a  little  shriek  of  hysterical 
laughter. 

"Well,  it 's  to  be  hoped  so,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know 
who  the  other  joint-secretary  is?  I  fixed  it  up  this  after- 
noon too,  and  it 's  Alice  Adair  herself.  Oh,  James, 
James,  you  talk  of  outsiders,  but  you  are  an  outsider 
yourself.  All  your  ideas  and  feelings  are  from  outside — 
from  above — from  beyond.  You  are  too  good  for  this 
earth." 


CHAPTER  XI 
In  which  Public  Business  is  Transacted 

WHEN  she  reentered  the  cab  after  her  encounter 
with  Thomasina  at  Longshaws,  Alice  almost 
ordered  it  home  again.  She  even  knocked  on  the  win- 
dow with  this  intention.  But  the  driver  did  not  hear 
her,  and  next  moment  she  had  changed  her  mind.  Now, 
if  ever,  she  realized,  she  must  show  of  what  stuff  she 
was  made.  Was  she,  because  her  husband  chose  to  make 
a  fool  of  himself  and  go  visiting  other  women  under  an 
assumed  name — as  the  gentleman  from  Cauldstanes — 
when  no  one  else  was  to  be  admitted — was  she  to  go 
home  and  wring  her  hands  and  weep  for  him?  Never! 
She  went  on,  therefore,  to  Hillside,  and,  being  in  a 
manner  out  of  herself,  had  never  looked  so  pretty  and 
had  never  been  such  a  social  success  as  she  was  that 
afternoon.  Wrath  and  fear  had  made  her  eyes  flash  and 
her  cheeks  glow ;  wrath  at  what  had  happened  to  her,  fear 
of  what  might  be  about  to  happen.  For  behind  all  the 
fire  and  fury  lurked  the  consciousness  of  a  cold  despair 
lying  in  wait  for  her  at  the  Bow  House,  which  would  be 
hard  to  meet.  The  thought  of  going  home  terrified  her. 
She  stayed,  therefore,  as  long  as  decency  permitted  at 
Hillside,  and  it  was  in  the  last  half-hour  that  Miss  Penni- 
feather  came  up  to  her  and  asked  her  if  she  would  under- 
take, along  with  another  person  still  unknown,  the  joint- 
secretaryship  of  the  garden-fete,  to  be  held  in  aid  of  the 


196  WINTERGREEN 

fund  for  disabled  soldiers  and  sailors  at  Pitcaple  three 
weeks  from  that  date. 

"We  have  to  rush  it,  you  see,  Mrs.  Adair,"  said  Miss 
Penni  feather.  "Pitcaple  is  to  be  let,  and  we  can't  have 
it  after  that.  Therefore  we  are  having  two  secretaries. 
I  do  hope  you  will  consent  to  be  one  of  them." 

Alice  .experienced  a  glow  of  pride  at  this.  It  was  the 
first  time  since  her  seclusion  that  she  had  been  invited 
to  take  an  official  part  in  any  public  function.  It  is  well 
for  us  sometimes  that  reasons  remain  hidden. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  Miss  Penni  feather  had  just  said  to 
Mrs.  Rutherford,  in  that  confidential  conversation  which 
succeeded  the  clearing  of  the  air  between  them.  "If  all 
tales  are  true  she  will  need  all  the  distraction  she  can  get, 
and  if  she  won't  do  much  good  she  can't  do  much  harm. 
She  will  be  sure  to  work  hard  at  least,  and  I  always  pre- 
fer— don't  you? — a  secretary  with  no  initiative." 

Alice  had  consented  without  hesitation  or  reservation, 
but  returning  in  Miss  Pennifeather's  cab,  she  began  to 
wonder  how  Jack  would  like  it,  and  to  realize  that  in 
taking  this  step  independently  of  him  she  had  made  a 
new  departure.  Never  before  had  she  done  anything, 
when  Jack  was  available  at  all,  without  telling  him  first 
and  talking  it  over  with  him.  This  time  she  would  never 
be  able  to  do  this.  She  had  definitely  promised.  She  had 
now  simply  to  announce  what  she  had  done  to  Jack. 

At  first  this  seemed  easy  enough,  but  as  the  cab  jolted 
downhill  towards  the  sea,  a  cold  consciousness  of  im- 
pending disapproval  crept  upon  her.  She  listened  in  a 
daze  to  her  companion's  talk,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that 
it  was  fortunate  that  Miss  Pennifeather  never  needed 
answers. 

"So  good  of  you  to  keep  me  company,  my  dear,"  Miss 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     197 

Pennifeather  was  saying.  "I  had  thought  of  walking 
home  too,  but  it  does  take  such  a  time.  Not  that  this 
old  cab  of  McAllister's  takes  much  less,  and,  as  I  always 
tell  him,  it  invariably  smells  as  if  the  horse  had  passed 
the  night  in  it.  But  now  let 's  talk.  There  is  so  little 
time  that  we  must  n't  lose  a  minute  of  it.  I  '11  send  round 
notes  to-night,  and  call  a  meeting  for  to-morrow,  at  which 
you  and  your  joint-secretary  will  be  appointed.  Then 
we  can  get  to  work." 

"Oh,  a  meeting?"  said  Alice,  feeling  like  one  who  has 
stepped  inadvertently  upon  a  raft  and  been  borne  away 
into  a  rapid. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  of  course.  You  could  n't  be  appointed 
unless,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather.  "You  '11  have  to  be  pro- 
posed and  seconded.  Besides  we  must  have  a  meeting  to 
draw  up  a  scheme.  There  are  a  hundred  and  one  things 
to  do  before  we  can  do  anything.  That  sounds  Irish, 
does  n't  it  ?  But  you  know  what  I  mean.  Of  course 
you  '11  bring  a  notebook  and  a  pencil  with  you.  I  shall 
call  a  meeting  for  two  o'clock,  so  that  we  may  have 
plenty  of  time,  and  Miss  Fortescue  has  promised  to  give 
us  all  tea  afterwards." 

"Miss  Fortescue?"  exclaimed  Alice. 

"Yes,  hadn't  I  said  that  Miss  Fortescue  had  kindly 
consented  to  have  the  meeting  there?"  said  Miss  Penni- 
feather. "I  think  it  very  good  of  her.  You  see  the  draw- 
ing-room at  the  manse  is  so  small.  It  would  never  hold 
twenty-four  people  comfortably." 

"Twenty- four !"  exclaimed  Alice.  "Are  there  as  many 
as  that?" 

"Oh,  yes,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather.  "You  see 
we  must  have  a  large  committee  drawn  from  every  class 
in  the  community;  the  larger  the  better.  The  secret  of 


198  WINTERGREEN 

good  organization  is  to  let  every  one  think  he  or  she  is 
indispensable.  The  more  you  expect  people  to  do  the 
more  they  will  do.  By  the  way,  could  you  possibly  come 
round  to-night  and  help  me  to  write  these  notes  ?" 

When  Jack  came  home  half  an  hour  late  for  supper  he 
found  a  letter  from  Alice  waiting  for  him  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

"Dear  Jack,"  it  ran.  "There  is  to  be  a  garden-fete  at 
Pitcaple  next  month  in  aid  of  the  Disabled  Soldiers  and 
Sailors'  Fund.  I  have  been  asked  to  be  joint-secretary, 
and  I  have  consented.  I  am  going  now  to  Miss  Penni- 
feather  to  help  her  to  write  notes.  Yours  in  haste, 

"ALICE." 

"Mrs.  Adair  has  had  supper,  sir,"  added  Wintergreen 
by  way  of  postscript  as  she  set  a  covered  dish  upon  the 
table. 

Jack  made  no  answer.  He  was  very  sore,  not  so  much 
at  Alice's  action  as  at  the  manner  in  which  she  had  an- 
nounced it. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  done  such  a  thing. 

"And  it  won't  be  the  last,"  he  reflected  bitterly. 

He  realized  the  announcement  to  be  a  milestone  in 
their  lives,  a  sign  of  the  times,  a  portent.  Well,  if  she 
could  be  independent,  so  could  he.  If  she  wished  their 
ways  to  part,  he  would  not  hinder  her.  He  had  his  work. 
He  would  devote  himself  to  it.  A  blight  had  fallen  upon 
their  love  apparently,  but  she  should  at  least  be  proud 
of  him.  She  should  be  proud  in  spite  of  herself.  He 
would  devote  himself  to  his  work. 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     199 

At  this  juncture  in  his  thoughts  the  door  opened  and 
Gardshore  entered. 

"Hullo !"  said  Jack,  rising.  "This  is  splendid.  I  'm 
glad  to  see  you." 

Then  he  stopped  short  in  mid-flow  of  speech.  There 
was  no  answering  gladness  in  Gardshore's  tragic 
eyes. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  said  Jack  kindly.  "Here,  near 
the  fire.  Have  you  had  supper?" 

He  placed  a  chair  and  Gardshore  sat  down. 

"Yes — no,"  he  said.  "I  mean  I  do  not  want  any.  But 
you  go  on  with  yours.  I  only  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"All  right,"  said  Jack,  sitting  down  and  repressing  a 
sigh,  for  he  was  rather  tired.  "Talk  away." 

He  went  on  with  his  supper  then,  while  Gardshore 
regarded  him  gloomily. 

"I  do  wish  to  heaven,"  said  Jack  to  himself,  "that  he 
would  get  on  or  go  away." 

"I  have  queer  fancies  up  in  my  room  at  times,"  said 
Gardshore  at  last.  "I  have  queer  fancies  about  you, 
Adair — a — a  kind  of  second  sight.  To-day — this  after- 
noon— I  saw  you  with  a  lady." 

Jack  laughed. 

"Which  one?"  he  said.  "This  afternoon  I  saw  about 
half  a  dozen." 

"One  very  beautiful,"  Gardshore  went  on,  unheeding, 
"and  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  you  were  in  very 
great  danger,  that  in  being  with  her  you  were  risking  not 
only  your  own  happiness,  but  the  happiness  of  one  who 
should  be  dear  to  you." 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  the  man?" 
thought  Jack. 


200  WINTERGREEN 

Aloud  he  said:  "Don't  worry  about  it,  old  chap. 
Dreams  always  go  by  contraries,  and  so,  possibly,  do 
imaginings." 

Then  looking  at  him  keenly  he  added :  "Don't  let  that 
old  Wintergreen  take  advantage  of  you,  you  know.  It 
was  awfully  good  of  you  to  help  her  as  you  did  yester- 
day, but  don't  forget  you  've  been  long  off  work  and 
must  n't  make  a  too  sudden  start." 

At  this,  Gardshore,  after  regarding  him  for  a  moment 
with  a  sinister  expression  on  his  haggard  face,  rose  from 
his  seat. 

"But  don't  go,"  said  Jack  as  cordially  as  he  could. 
"Don't  go  if  you  are  not  too  tired  to  stay." 

"I  am,"  said  Gardshore  suddenly  and  violently;  "too 
tired — too  sick — too  sorry " 

Then  he  left  the  room. 

Jack  sat  motionless,  staring  at  the  door,  till  he  heard 
his  patient  climb  the  stair,  enter  his  door,  and  close  it 
after  him  with  a  slam. 

His  face  was  troubled  as  he  went  on  with  his  meal. 

"He  's  decidedly  worse,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  must 
speak  to  that  old  Wintergreen." 

He  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Wintergreen,"  he  said  when  she  appeared,  "I  know 
you  meant  well,  but  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Gardshore  has  been 
doing  too  much.  I  must  ask  you  not  to  make  him  work 
again.  He  is  suffering  from  nervous  strain,  and  has  to 
be  treated  with  great  care.  He  is  decidedly  worse  to- 
night." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen. 

"Has  he  taken  his  meals  to-day  ?"  said  Jack. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen,  "at  least  only  very  par- 
tially." 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     201 

"Only  very  partially;  I  thought  so,"  said  Jack.  "You 
see  it  won't  do ;  this  silver-cleaning  and  so  on.  He  enjoys 
it  at  the  time,  but  it 's  too  much.  He  is  suffering  from 
reaction  to-night.  There  must  be  no  more  of  it." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen. 

Then  she  left  the  room. 

But  Jack's  peace  of  mind,  such  as  it  had  been,  was 
gone.  At  the  very  moment  when  he  had  resolved  to  win 
success  if  he  could  not  have  love,  this  trouble  had  come 
to  him. 

Gardshore  had  seemed  so  much  better  during  the  last 
few  days.  Now  he  was  worse  than  he  had  ever  seen 
him ;  gloomy,  wild-looking,  morose,  incoherent,  or  at  least 
incomprehensible. 

It  was  damnable. 

Could  he  be  going  off  his  head  ? 

The  thought  took  away  his  appetite.  He  pushed  away 
his  plate  and  then  went  upstairs. 

Gardshore  was  seated  huddled  up  in  the  big  chair  by 
the  fire. 

"You  must  excuse  my  following  you  up,"  said  Jack, 
"but  I  wanted  to  see " 

"To  see  if  I  were  mad,  I  suppose  ?"  snarled  Gardshore 
like  a  surly  dog.  He  looked  indeed  like  some  wounded 
thing  sitting  glaring  there.  "Well,  be  calm,"  he  went  on, 
"I  am  not  mad.  Not  half  so  mad,  at  least,  as  you  are." 

Jack  took  a  chair  opposite  to  him. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  annoyed  you  just  now,"  he  said.  "But 
I  should  like  to  hear  more  of  those  imaginings  of  yours 
if  you  care  to  tell  me " 

But  at  this  Gardshore  leaped  up. 

"How  dare  you?"  he  cried.  "How  dare  you  take  ad- 
vantage like  this  of  our  position — of  our  relative  posi- 


202  WINTERGREEN 

tions — to  pretend  you  do  not  understand  me  ?  If  you  do 
not  wish  me  to  become  a  murderer,  Adair,  I  ask  you  to 
say  no  more  now,  but  to  go  away,  and  not  to  return  until 
you  can  be  honest  with  me.  Till  then,  for  God's  sake, 
leave  me!" 

Crossing  the  hall  a  few  minutes  later  Wintergreen 
met  her  master  looking  pale  and  worried. 

"I  have  to  go  out  and  may  not  get  back  for  an  hour," 
he  said.  "And  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Gardshore  is  not  at  all 
well ;  mentally  well,  you  understand.  Don't  you  go  near 
him,  even  if  he  calls.  If  you  want  me  I  can  be  back  in 
five  minutes — I  shall  be  close  at  hand — two  three  is  the 
telephone  number." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen. 

But  as  soon  as  he  had  gone  she  went  upstairs  to  the 
top  landing  and  knocked  at  Gardshore's  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Gardshore  irritably. 

She  entered  and  found  him  huddled  as  before. 

"Don't  ask  me  to  have  supper,"  he  barked,  before  she 
had  said  a  word.  "I  don't  wan't  anything  at  all  to-night, 
and  it  is  n't  a  bit  of  use  saying  I  '11  get  run  down.  I  want 
to  run  down.  The  sooner  I  run  down  the  better." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen.  "Then  I  '11  just 
make  up  your  fire  for  you." 

"You  shall  not!"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up.  "You 
shc-11  not  touch  the  fire!  How  dare  you  make  game  of 
me  ?  But  you  all  do !  He  did  too.  But  he  need  n't  think 
he  deceived  me.  Tell  him  that  from  me.  He  did  not 
deceive  me  with  his  ridiculous  professional  jargon." 

"Good  night  then,  sir.  I  '11  go  away,"  said  Winter- 
green. 

"And  don't  come  back,  whatever  you  do,"  he  answered. 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     203 

Alice  was  asleep  or  apparently  so  when  Jack  returned 
that  night,  and  next  morning  she  had  gone  downstairs 
before  he  awoke.  They  met  at  breakfast  for  the 
first  time  since  Alice's  communication  of  the  evening 
before. 

She  had  expected  some  adverse  comment  from  him, 
but  none  came.  He  was  buried  for  the  most  part,  as  on 
the  day  before,  in  his  newspaper.  And  somehow  this 
indifference  seemed  to  her  the  worst  thing  that  had  hap- 
pened yet.  It  made  her  feel,  as  nothing  had  done,  the 
extent  of  the  rift  that  had  come  between  them. 

He  left  her,  as  on  the  day  before,  immediately  he  had 
finished  breakfast,  and  went  up  to  Gardshore's  flat,  where 
he  found  a  notice  fastened  on  the  door. 

"It  is  requested  that  no  one,  with  the  exception  of 
Wintergreen,  he  allowed  to  enter  here  to-day. — CARD- 
SHORE." 

"This  is  awful,"  said  Jack  to  himself.  "I  can't  ask 
that  woman  to  go  into  a  madman's  room.  Whatever 
should  I  do?" 

He  went  down  nevertheless  to  the  kitchen  where  Win- 
tergreen was  at  her  morning  duties.  Her  arms  were 
plunged  to  the  elbows  in  a  pail  of  soap-suds  as  she  lis- 
tened to  him. 

"Wintergreen,"  he  said,  "have  you  seen  the  notice  on 
Mr.  Gardshore's  door?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  said.  "I  saw  it  when  I  took  up  his 
breakfast." 

"You  took  up  his  breakfast!"  he  exclaimed.  "But  I 
told  you " 

"Yes,  sir.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "But  I 
forgot  till  I  got  there,  and  then,  seeing  the  notice  on  the 
door,  I  thought  it  would  be  all  right,  sir." 


204  WINTERGREEN 

"Well,  thank  God !  You  have  good  nerves  at  any  rate," 
said  Jack. 

"Yes,  thank  God,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen.  "And  I  have 
had  rare  chances  of  toughening  them  up  too.  The  best 
of  nerves  need  toughening  up  to  be  of  any  real  use,  sir." 

He  laughed,  looking  at  her  for  the  first  time  with  an 
interest  that  was  not  hostile  or  suspicious. 

"Then  I  wish  you  would  toughen  up  Gardshore's,"  he 
said.  "They  badly  need  it,  and  he  seems  to  have  changed 
his  doctor." 

Alice  heard  their  voices  in  the  distance  from  where  she 
sat  in  the  dining-room,  pretending  to  read  the  paper  and 
wondering  if  Jack  would  really  go  out  without  saying  a 
word  to  her  about  her  announcement,  without  seeing  her 
again.  She  wished  now  that  she  had  never  seen  or  heard 
of  Miss  Pennifeather  or  the  fete  or  the  secretaryship.  The 
little  pride  she  had  felt  in  it  was  turned  to  dust  and 
ashes.  Then  suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  not 
too  late  to  back  out.  She  had  not  yet  been  formally 
elected.  She  could  write  a  note. 

Hardly  had  she  thought  of  it  before  she  was  at  her 
desk. 


"Dear  Miss  Pennifeather,"  she  wrote.  "I  am  very- 
sorry  to  trouble  you  again,  but  I  have  been  thinking 
things  over  and  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
should  not  undertake  the  secretaryship  for  the  fete.  I 
am  not  businesslike  and  have  had  no  experience  of 
such  work.  I  feel  sure  that  you  would  have  no  difficulty 
in  finding  a  much  better  secretary.  If  I  can  help  you  in 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     205 

any  other  way  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so.  Thanking  you 
for  asking  me,  and  hoping  you  will  forgive  me  for  being 
so  changeable  and  troublesome,  Yours  sincerely, 

"ALICE  ADAIR." 

But  this  letter  was  destined  never  to  be  read  by  any 
one  but  its  writer. 

Alice  was  in  the  act  of  signing  her  name  when  the 
door-bell  rang,  and  two  minutes  later  the  front  door 
opened.  It  seemed  as  though  a  gust  of  wind  had  come 
in.  There  was  a  sound  of  voluble  talking,  the  rattle  of 
an  umbrella  in  the  stand,  the  swish  of  a  mackintosh  as  it 
missed  the  table  and  fell  on  the  floor,  then  the  tramp  of 
heavy  boots  approaching  the  dining-room  door. 

Then  the  door  opened. 

"Miss  Penni feather,"  announced  Wintergreen. 

This  lady,  as  she  told  Mrs.  Rutherford  afterwards,  had 
not  slept  a  wink  all  night.  She  had  been  worried  enough 
the  night  before  when  she  first  heard  that  her  brother 
had  asked  the  notorious  Miss  Carmyle  to  be  joint-secre- 
tary with  the  one  woman  in  Cauldstanes  with  whom  she 
should  not  have  been  asked  to  act.  But  as  as  the  hours 
passed  she  had  felt  worse  and  worse,  until  at  last  as 
morning  broke  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  some- 
thing must  be  done  at  once.  What  that  should  be  seemed 
to  her  perfectly  clear.  Miss  Carmyle  was  an  unknown 
quantity.  She  did  not  know  her,  but  her  brother  had 
said  she  might  be  a  very  great  asset  to  the  committee. 
Mrs.  Adair,  on  the  other  hand,  she  knew  or  thought  she 
knew.  It  would  be  easy,  she  imagined,  to  eliminate  Mrs. 
Adair.  She  could  give  her  something  else  perhaps  to 
make  up  for  the  secretaryship.  She  put  on  her  hat, 


206  WINTERGREEN 

therefore,  after  breakfast  to  run  round  and  see  Mrs. 
Adair,  though  she  was  in  the  midst  of  helping  Phemie  the 
treasure  with  the  housework. 

"Just  go  on  with  cutting  up  those  things,  Phemie,"  she 
said.  "I  shall  be  back  in  ten  minutes." 

And  she  was  really  under  the  impression  that  ten  min- 
utes would  suffice. 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  she  reentered  the 
manse  and  made  straight  for  the  study  where  her  brother 
was  sitting  reading. 

"James,"  she  said,  "will  you  kindly  advise  me  what  to 
do  ?  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  ask,  as  it  was  you  who  got 
me  into  this  predicament." 

"My  dear  Patience,"  said  her  brother,  "I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  give  you  advice." 

"Whether  you  will  take  it  or  not  is  another  matter," 
he  might  have  added. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather,  "I  felt  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  have  those  two  women  publicly 
associated  together.  I  know  what  you  think,  James,  but 
we  're  not  all  saints ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would 
get  Mrs.  Adair  to  withdraw." 

"My  dear  Patience,"  said  her  brother.  "Get  her  to 
withdraw  ?  How  very  unpleasant !" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  said  his  sister,  "but  one  had  to  do 
something,  and  somehow  I  thought  Mrs.  Adair  would 
be  quite  easy  to  manage.  She  was  so  modest  about  it 
yesterday  afternoon,  and  after  all  she  is  such  an  incom- 
petent little  chit.  But  it 's  always  those  people  who  are 
utterly  incapable  who  insist  upon  forcing  themselves  into 
things." 

"But,  Patience,"  said  Mr.  Pennifeather,  sitting  up  in 
his  chair,  "are  you  not  very  unreasonable,  my  dear?  If 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     207 

you  though't  Mrs.  Adair  so  incompetent  why  in  the  world 
did  you  ask  her  to  be  your  seceretary  ?" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Patience,  shrugging  her  shoulders,  "I 
had  my  reasons,  James.  But  that  is  not  the  point.  The 
point  is  that  nothing  will  induce  her  to  withdraw." 

"And  did  you  tell  her  who  her  colleague  was  to  be?" 
said  Mr.  Penni feather. 

"Yes,  I  began  by  that,"  said  his  sister.  "I  started 
straight  off  with  that." 

"There  now,"  said  Mr.  Penni  feather.  "What  did  I 
tell  you  ?  Did  n't  I  say  that  Jack  Adair's  wife  would 
think  the  same  as  I  did  ?  Now  I  hope  you  are  convinced 
that  the  absurd  rumors  you  have  heard  are  without  foun- 
dation?" 

"No,  James,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather.  "No,  James,  I 
am  not  convinced.  There  was  something  in  her  manner 
— I  am  inclined  to  think  that  this  is  a  case  of  refusal  to 
give  ground  before  an  enemy." 

"Really,  Patience,"  said  her  brother,  "your  whole  point 
of  view  in  this  matter  is  wrong.  You  can  only  see  one 
side  of  the  question  because " 

"Very  well,  James,"  said  his  sister  rapidly.  "To  save 
time  I  agree.  But  what  would  you  advise  now?" 

"Ask  Miss  Carmyle  to  withdraw,"  said  her  brother 
jocosely.  "I  do  wish  you  would.  It  would  interest  me 
to  see  what  she  did." 

"Then,  James,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather,  "I  may  as 
well  tell  you  that  I  went  straight  from  the  Bow  House 
and  telephoned  to  Mrs.  Rutherford." 

Mr.  Pennifeather  emitted  an  exclamation  of  dismay 
and  cast  his  book  down  on  the  writing-table. 

"Patience — you  didn't?"  he  cried. 

"I  did,"  said  Patience,  "and  I  told  Mrs.  Rutherford 


208  WINTERGREEN 

what  had  happened,  and  asked  her  advice  as  to  what 
should  be  done  now.  Of  course  I  expected  her  to  sug- 
gest speaking  to  Miss  Carmyle,  and  so  she  did.  She  said 
she  would  go  straight  and  speak  to  her." 

Mr.  Pennifeather  groaned. 

"And  what  I  want  to  know  now,"  said  his  sister,  tak- 
ing no  notice  of  his  distress,  "is  whether  you  think  it 
likely  that  Miss  Carmyle  will  withdraw?" 

"Very  likely  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Pennifeather.  "I  could 
hardly  get  her  consent  to  act." 

"In  that  case,"  said  his  sister,  "don't  you  think  I  had 
better  ask " 

"Ask  no  one,"  he  exclaimed,  "or  you  may  end  in  hav- 
ing three  secretaries!" 

Jimmy's  headache  of  the  day  before  had  quite  gone 
by  dinner-time,  and  all  the  evening  she  seemed  to  be 
experiencing  a  reaction  from  it.  Never  had  she  been 
more  gay,  more  exquisitely  dressed,  more  fascinating 
than  on  the  night  following  the  fiasco  in  the  rose-garden. 
As  soon  as  Mr.  Pennifeather  had  left  she  had  gone 
straight  to  her  room,  and,  ringing  for  Maud,  had  asked 
her  to  find  out  if  any  one  else  had  called  while  Mr.  Pen- 
nifeather was  there.  Maud  went  and  asked  Eliza,  and 
Eliza,  who  was  a  labor-saver,  as  Thomasina  was  out  of 
the  way,  confined  herself  to  looking  to  see  if  there  were 
any  new  cards. 

"Only  Mrs.  Adair,"  she  said. 

Maud  communicated  this  news  with  sympathy  in  her 
kind  eyes.  Had  the  gentleman  from  Cauldstanes  not 
come?  She  too  had  had  her  experiences.  She  took 
extra  trouble  that  night  with  the  beautiful  bronze  hair. 

But  the  sympathy,  of  which  Jimmy  was  unwillingly 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     209 

aware,  instead  of  doing  her  good,  simply  roused  the  devil 
in  her.  Never,  as  Mrs.  Rutherford  said  afterwards,  had 
she  been  so  impossible  as  on  that  occasion.  They  had 
people  to  dinner,  and  the  meal  began  with  descriptions 
and  imitations  by  her  of  people  she  had  met  on  the  voy- 
age home,  which  made  the  whole  party,  except  Mrs. 
Rutherford  and  her  friend,  Miss  Scoresby,  rock  in  their 
chairs  with  merriment.  From  this  she  went  on  to  tales 
of  various  kinds,  which  set  the  table  in  a  roar  at  intervals, 
and  afterwards  at  dessert  proceeded  to  palmistry,  which 
necessitated  her  holding  the  hands  of  all  the  men.  After 
this  came  songs  of  all  descriptions  and,  after  them,  step- 
dances.  It  was  the  most  awful  dinner-party  over  which 
Mrs.  Rutherford  had  ever  presided. 

She  and  Miss  Scoresby  retired  early  in  the  evening  to 
a  little  inner  drawing-room  and,  sitting  down,  looked  at 
each  other  in  silence.  Then  they  shook  their  heads  and, 
having  thus  dismissed  Jimmy  for  the  time,  they  began  to 
discuss  more  important  matters. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "though  this  is  not 
official  of  course,  you,  in  my  opinion,  are  the  right  person 
to  be  the  other  secretary.  Mrs.  Adair  requires  some  one 
to  direct  her.  She  will  do  very  well  under  your  capable 
guidance." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  said  Miss  Scoresby,  highly 
pleased. 

"My  dear,  every  one  thinks  so,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford. 
"We  all  remember  how  splendidly  you  managed  the  Red 
Cross  whist-drive  and  the  jumble  sale.  There  are  no 
two  opinions  about  it,  I  assure  you." 

"Yet,"  said  Miss  Scoresby,  "does  it  not  seem  strange 
that  Miss  Pennif eather  has  not  approached  me  yet  ?" 

"It  is  strange,"  said   Mrs.   Rutherford.     "She  quite 


210  WINTERGREEN 

intended  writing  to  you  immediately  after  she  got  home." 

"There  will  be  a  letter  awaiting  me  doubtless  when  I 
get  back,"  said  Miss  Scoresby.  "What  are  they  doing 
now  ?" 

She  was  beginning  to  feel  out  of  it  in  the  inner  draw- 
ing-room with  Mrs.  Rutherford,  and  now  that  she  had 
heard  her  opinion  about  the  secretaryship  she  was  also 
beginning  to  feel  rather  bored.  Moreover  a  sudden 
silence  which  had  succeeded  the  noise  in  the  outer  room 
was  rather  arresting. 

"Do  let 's  go  and  see,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

As  she  spoke  some  one  began  playing  softly  and  tenta- 
tively a  minuet. 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  came  Jimmy's  voice.  "It's  'Mar- 
quise,' by  Massanet.  A  delicious  thing.  Jack  Adair  and 
I  danced  it  once  at  Alimara  at  a  concert. 

"Dance  it  now,"  exclaimed  half  a  dozen  voices. 

"I  don't  believe  I  could,"  said  Jimmy,  "without  Jack." 

"Let 's  ring  him  up !"  said  some  one. 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  came  Mr.  Rutherford's  voice.  "I  can 
dance  a  minuet  as  well  as  Jack  any  day.  Come  along, 
Jimmy.  Play  up,  Miss  Apsley,  please." 

Amid  dead  silence  the  minuet  music  began  again. 
Then  Ada  Apsley,  who  had  a  lovely  mezzo  voice,  began 
to  sing. 

Vous  en  souvenez  vous   Marquise — Marquise — Marquise — ? 

Vous  portiez  une  robe  exquise 

De  blanc  satin 

Et  1'archet  mariant  nos  ames 

La  main  dans  la  main  nous  dansames 

Jusqu'au  matin.  .  .  . 

At  the  first  word  Miss  Scoresby  had  made  for  the 
door  into  the  other  drawing-room  and  now  stood  looking 
on. 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     211 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  must  come,"  she  exclaimed  pres- 
ently in  a  stage  whisper,  beckoning  to  her  companion. 

Her  tone  was  compelling.  Mrs.  Rutherford  rose  and 
came  forward  to  the  doorway. 

"Charles!"  she  exclaimed  faintly  when  she  looked 
within.  But  he  was  far  beyond  noticing  her,  and  so 
was  everybody  else.  The  rugs  had  been  kicked  aside, 
and,  in  the  middle  of  the  polished  floor,  Charles — a  new, 
courtly,  graceful  Charles  for  all  his  stout  middle  age — 
was  gravely  bowing  and  circling  with  the  sylphlike 
Jimmy. 

"I  say,  doesn't  the  old  boy  do  it  rippingly?"  she  heard 
one  young  man  in  front  of  her  say  to  another.  "I  did  n't 
know  he  had  it  in  him." 

"Any  one  would  do  it  rippingly  with  such  a  partner," 
said  the  other. 

"All  the  same  I  should  like  to  see  Adair  do  it  with  her — 
what?" 

"Yes,  I  hear  he  is  rather  gone  in  that  quarter — was 
meeting  her  at  Brakely  when  she  arrived  and  so  on." 

"Rather  rough  on  his  wife;  a  pretty  little  girl.  I  met 
her  at  Hillside  this  afternoon." 

"Ah,  yes,  pretty  enough ;  but  not  in  the  same  street  as 
this  one,"  said  the  other. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  still  the  dance  went 
on. 


Moi  j'en  ai  toujours 

Garde  la  memoire 

De  vos  petits  pieds, 

Vos  souliers  d'ivoire, 

D'un  sillon  de  lis  dessinant  vos  pas. 

Et  vous  de  danser  ne  vous  lassant  pas. 

De  ce  menuet  vous  futes  la  gloire— 

Immortels  regrets  d'un  passe  lointain  .  .  . 


212  WINTERGREEN 

"Old  Charlie  's  quite  carried  away,"  said  one  of  the  men 
to  the  other  again.  "After  all,  it 's  rotten  luck  for  a  man 
who  can  dance  like  that  to  be  old  and  married  to " 

A  violent  kick  from  his  companion,  who  had  just  dis- 
covered his  hostess'  proximity,  silenced  him. 

At  the  same  moment  a  long  sustained  high  note  and  a 
sweeping  obeisance  brought  the  dance  to  an  end. 

It  was  the  climax  of  the  evening. 

"We  don't  want  anything  more  after  that,"  said  some 
one. 

And  presently  the  company  dispersed.  Jimmy  also  dis- 
appeared, and  when  Mrs.  Rutherford  came  to  look  for 
her  husband  an  Hour  later  she  found  him  alone  in  the 
smoking-room,  dreaming  over  an  unlighted  cigar. 

"Well,  Charles,"  she  said  sharply.  I  hope  you  are 
pleased  with  yourself,  acting  the  mountebank  in  your  own 
drawing-room.  Though  you  probably  did  not  notice  it, 
Eliza  came  in  while  you  were  curvetting  about,  to  an- 
nounce the  Scoresby's  carriage.  You  '11  be  the  talk  of  the 
servant's  hall." 

"Shall  I?"  exclaimed  Charles.  "Do  you  really  think 
so,  Sarah?  Well!  I  thought  I  had  done  with  being 
talked  about!  I  owe  Jimmy  thanks  for  that." 

"I  wish  the  girl  was  gone,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford. "Either  she  or  I  will  have  to  leave  Longshaws 
soon." 

And  with  these  words,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
which  was  perhaps  wise,  Mrs.  Rutherford  left  the  room. 

Meantime  Jimmy,  whom  every  one,  including  Maud, 
believed  to  be  in  bed  and  asleep,  was  roaming  like  a  wild 
thing  about  the  grounds,  a  prey  to  the  violence  of  disap- 
pointment Wounded  pride  added  its  sting  to  her  de- 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     213 

spair.  Never  before  had  she  so  humbled  herself  to  any 
man  as  to  write  and  virtually  ask  for  an  interview.  It 
had  always  been  the  other  way  with  her.  And  no  answer 
of  any  kind  had  come  to  her.  He  had  taken  absolutely 
no  notice.  She  would  never  get  over  it,  she  told  herself. 
She  was  the  most  miserable  girl  under  the  moon.  And 
what  to  do  now?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  go  away 
from  Cauldstanes  and  be  done  with  it  ?  What  good  would 
it  do  to  stay  on  as  though  she  were  hoping  for  future 
meetings?  Surely  she  had  already  been  humiliated 
enough.  She  clenched  her  hands  as  she  thought  of  her 
letter,  of  how  she  had  written  and  rewritten  it  a  dozen 
times,  only  to  have  it  thrown  into  the  fire  most  likely. 

One  hope  only  remained.  It  came  to  her  suddenly 
as  she  stood  on  the  lawn  close  to  the  French  window  of 
the  morning-room  by  which  she  had  emerged  from  the 
house.  Had  her  letter  been  delivered?  Was  it  possible 
that  by  any  chance  it  had  never  arrived?  Messengers 
were  careless  sometimes.  The  thought  grew  and  grew 
until  it  became  a  possession.  She  felt  that  at  all  risks 
she  must  find  out.  She  could  not  wait  either.  She  would 
telephone  that  very  night.  It  would  be  safer  now  than 
in  the  day.  The  telephone  was  in  the  morning-room,  far 
from  all  the  bedrooms  of  the  house.  She  reentered  it 
by  the  French  window  and,  closing  the  door  carefully, 
took  up  the  receiver  and  asked  for  the  Bow  House. 
There  was  a  long  pause  before  there  was  any  answer,  so 
long  that  she  rang  again. 

"There  's  no  reply  from  the  Bow  House,"  said  a  voice. 
But  almost  immediately  afterwards  a  woman's  voice  an- 
swered. 

"Hullo!"  said  Jimmy.    "Is  that  you  Wintergreen ?" 

"Yes." 


214  WINTERGREEN 

"This  is  Jimmy  Carmyle." 

"Yes." 

"I  'm  sorry  to  bring  you  down  out  of  bed,"  said  Jimmy, 
"but  it  was  urgent.  I  had  to  know  to-night.  Did  you  get 
the  letter  I  sent  you  yesterday  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  deliver  the  enclosure  to  Mr.  Gardshore  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  have  had  no  reply,"  said  Jimmy,  and  for  the  life 
of  her  she  could  not  keep  the  half -sob  out  of  her  voice. 
"That 's  why  I  wondered ;  but  if  the  letter  was  delivered 
that 's  all  I  want  to  know.  Thank  you,  Wintergreen. 
Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  said  Wintergreen. 

As  Jimmy  laid  down  the  receiver  again  the  clock  in 
the  hall  struck  three  and,  remembering  that  pride  pre- 
vented her  allowing  the  ravages  of  grief  to  appear,  she 
forced  herself  to  go  to  bed,  where  presently  from  sheer 
exhaustion  she  fell  asleep.  But  about  eight  o'clock  she 
woke  again  and  lay  wondering  how,  without  remark 
and  without  offense  to  her  kind  host,  she  could  manage 
to  leave  Longshaws  at  once.  Amid  all  these  agitations 
Mr.  Pennifeather's  visit  and  his  request  were  of  course 
forgotten.  She  and  her  hostess  were  sitting  alone  at 
breakfast  when  Eliza  came  in  to  say  that  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford was  wanted  at  the  telephone.  She  was  gone  for 
some  time,  and  when  she  returned  there  was  a  strange 
expression  on  her  face. 

"I  am  surprised  to  hear  from  Miss  Penni feather,"  she 
said,  "that  you  have  been  asked  to  be  joint-secretary 
for  the  fete,  and  that  you  have  accepted." 

Even  the  saying  of  these  words  made  Mrs.  Rutherford 
furiously  indignant.  Miss  Scoresby  would  be  so  dread- 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     215 

fully  disappointed.  Besides,  this  awful  girl  accepting 
an  invitation — and  such  an  invitation — without  consult- 
ing her!  It  was  too  much.  Jimmy  in  fact  would  have 
realized  this  herself  had  she  not  been  frenzied  at  the  time, 
and  subsequently  oblivious. 

"Oh,  yes,  so  I  did,"  she  said.    "I  had  quite  forgotten." 

This  was  insult  added  to  injury. 

"Of  course  it 's  very  kind  of  you  and  all  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Rutherford.  "But  do  you  think  you  are  fitted  for 
such  a  task?" 

Here  Mrs.  Rutherford  by  excess  of  eagerness  thwarted 
her  own  intention.  Her  tone  roused  the  devil  in  Jimmy 
again. 

"For  some  reason  she  wants  me  to  back  out,"  she  said 
to  herself. 

"Fitted?"  she  said  aloud.  "Oh,  yes.  I  have  always 
been  extremely  good  at  getting  up  entertainments." 

Mrs.  Rutherford  at  this  grew  first  hot,  then  cold.  The 
scene  of  the  night  before  recurred  to  her  mind.  She  saw 
Charles,  her  husband,  laird  of  Longshaws,  dancing 
minuets  at  Pitcaple  before  the  whole  neighborhood.  She 
became  suddenly  desperate. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  know,"  she  said,  "that  the  other 
joint-secretary  is  Mrs.  Adair." 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  that,"  said  Jimmy  heartily 
as  she  helped  herself  to  jam.  "I  have  not  seen  her  yet, 
but  I  am  sure  we  shall  get  along  excellently." 

At  about  a  quarter  to  two  Miss  Pennifeather  met  Mrs. 
Rutherford  in  the  hall  of  the  Fortescues'  house.  A  buzz 
of  voices  could  already  be  heard  upstairs,  and  a  pile  of 
umbrellas  lay  on  the  hall  table.  But  here  there  was  still 
a  moment's  solitude. 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Pennifeather  anxiously. 


216  WINTERGREEN 

"I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "that 
my  interview  with  Miss  Carmyle  has  been  quite  useless, 
and  yet  I  tried  everything  I  could  think  of.  I  was  even 
explicit.  But  nothing  had  any  effect." 

"Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather,  whose 
rapidly  working  mind  was  wont  to  adjust  itself  with  start- 
ling velocity,  "they  both  know  now,  and  that  is  some- 
thing." 

"But  what  a  combination,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford; "a  woman  of  no  experience  and  a  harebrain 
with  too  much!  I  cannot  imagine  what  your  brother 
was  thinking  of !  Now  Miss  Scoresby " 

"Oh,  Miss  Scoresby  would  never  have  done,"  said 
Miss  Pennifeather.  "She  acts  on  the  principle  that  if 
you  never  do  anything  you  will  never  make  mistakes. 
But  what  is  the  good  of  a  woman  on  a  committee  who 
never  will  commit  herself?  We  don't  want  that  for  a 
fete.  We  want  go  and  push.  And  that  we  have  our- 
selves— you  and  I,  Mrs.  Rutherford." 

"Well,  all  I  can  say,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "is  that 
I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  manage  our  committee  better 
than  we  have  been  able  to  manage  our  two  secretaries- 
elect." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather,  "but  we  must  get 
on  now." 

She  then  led  the  way  upstairs. 

At  the  drawing-room  door  they  were  met  by  Lydia, 
who  led  them  to  greet  Clara,  ensconced  as  a  spectator  in 
a  corner. 

A  ripple  of  laughter  went  through  the  company  as 
they  came  in.  Jimmy,  very  graceful  and  chic  in  beauti- 
fully cut  gray  garments  was  giving  an  account  of  the 
last  committee  meeting  she  had  been  at  in  India,  after 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     217 

which  they  had  all  posed  in  the  heat  of  the  day  for  a 
photograph,  only  to  find  afterwards  that  an  elephant  had, 
by  mistake,  been  photographed  before  on  the  same  plate. 
Even  Alice  could  not  help  laughing,  though  she  had 
been  stiffly  grave  up  till  then,  and,  as  the  whole  per- 
formance was  for  her  benefit,  Jimmy  was  gratified  at 
this. 

"Let  her  alone  and  she'll  come  home,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

Alice  indeed  was  relieved  that  she  could  sit  in  the  same 
room  with  Jimmy  and  not  betray  embarrassment.  So 
long  as  Jimmy  kept  all  eyes  on  herself  Alice  felt  at  ease 
and  able  to  cope  with  everything.  With  her  pencil  and 
note-book  too,  she  felt  quite  important. 

But  all  at  once  a  rustling  silence  fell. 

Miss  Penni feather  had  taken  the  chair. 

In  a  few  moments,  with  characteristic  swiftness,  she 
had  passed  through  the  preliminaries. 

"And  now,"  she  went  on,  "we  must  proceed  to  the 
election  of  two  joint-secretaries.  Two  ladies  have  been 
approached ;  Miss  Carmyle  and  Mrs.  Adair." 

At  this  point  a  large  lady  in  the  fourth  row  rose  to  a 
point  of  order. 

"Miss  Pennifeather  and  ladies,"  she  said,  "I  desire 
to  protest  against  the  private  approaching  of  two  ladies 
with  regard  to  the  secretaryship.  I  have  attended  com- 
mittee meetings  for  years,  and  I  know  that  this  is  not  the 
correct  procedure." 

Here  she  ceased  and  sat  down  amid  considerable 
sensation. 

"I  agree  with  Mrs.  Moncur,"  said  another  lady,  rising. 
"In  my  humble  opinion  the  lady  in  the  chair — if  she  can 
spare  the  time — should  call  for  nominations," 


2i8  WINTERGREEN 

"Very  well,  very  well!"  said  Miss  Pennifeather  hur- 
riedly. "I  do  call  for  nominations." 

"I  beg  to  propose  Miss  Scoresby,"  said  Mrs.  Moncur, 
rising  massively  and  deliberately.  "Miss  Scoresby  is 
one  in  whom  we  can  all  have  the  utmost  confidence.  She 
does  not  allow  herself  to  be  hurried  or  flurried  into  any- 
thing which  she  considers  injudicious.  She  has  a  mind 
of  her  own,  and  knows  the  ways  of  this  place,  and  though 
she  is  not  one  who  thrusts  herself  forward  in  any  way, 
as  some  people  do  who  are  much  less  worthy  of  promi- 
nence, she  is  a  born  leader.  I  therefore  have  much  pleas- 
ure in  proposing  Miss  Scoresby." 

"Is  that  seconded?"  said  Miss  Pennifeather,  looking 
rather  warm. 

"I  beg,"  said  the  second  lady  who  had  risen  before, 
"very  cordially  to  second  the  proposal  of  Mrs.  Moncur. 
I  do  so  with  confidence,  because  I  feel  that  in  Miss 
Scoresby  we  have  one  whom  we  all  know.  As  Mrs. 
Moncur  has  well  put  it,  she,  Miss  Scoresby,  knows  the 
ways  of  the  place,  and  this  in  an  entertainment  which  is 
to  be  of  a  local  character  is  exceedingly  important.  She 
also,  as  Mrs.  Moncur  has  said,  is  of  an  independent 
nature,  and  able  to  hold  her  own  against  any  woman. 
I  have  therefore  the  greatest  pleasure  in  seconding  Mrs. 
Moncur's  proposals." 

"Any  more  nominations?"  said  Miss  Pennifeather, 
flustered  but  determined  to  get  on  at  all  costs.  "Miss 
Scoresby's  name  has  been  proposed  and  seconded.  Any 
others?" 

"I  beg  to  propose  Miss  Carmyle,"  said  Ada  Apsley, 
starting  up.  "She  is  accustomed  to  committee  meetings 
as  we  have  just  heard." 

Here  there  was  another  ripple  of  laughter. 


PUBLIC  BUSINESS  IS  TRANSACTED     219 

"And  I  beg  to  submit,  with  all  deference  to  the  other 
speakers,  that  a  little  breath  from  the  outside  world  will 
do  us  all  good." 

Ada  sat  down  amid  applause,  and  three  people  started 
up  to  second  her. 

"Miss  Carmyle  is  proposed  and  seconded,"  said  Miss 
Pennifeather.  "Any  other  nominations?" 

"I  beg  to  propose  Mrs.  Adair,"  said  Jimmy,  rising. 
"I  refuse  to  act  without  Mrs.  Adair." 

"Is  this  seconded?"  said  Miss  Pennifeather  faintly. 

At  least  it  sounded  faint  to  Alice  through  the  rushing 
and  buzzing  in  her  ears.  It  seemed  to  her,  sitting  there 
with  her  note-book  and  pencil,  as  though  she  had  delib- 
erately been  made  a  fool  of  before  all  those  people.  They 
too,  like  Jack,  had  rejected  her  for  the  woman  in  gray, 
and  had  left  it  to  the  intruder  she  so  bitterly  hated  to 
propose  her.  Surely  this  last  humiliation  was  the  greatest 
affront  that  could  have  been  offered  to  her.  Only  de- 
termination that  no  one  should  see  she  minded,  no  one 
dare  to  pity  her,  kept  her  in  her  place.  She  did  not  even 
hear  the  proposal  seconded.  When  she  came  to  herself 
Miss  Pennifeather  had  progressed  a  stage  further. 

"Three  names  are  before  the  meeting,"  she  was  saying, 
"the  names  of  Miss  Scoresby,  Miss  Carmyle,  and  Mrs. 
Adair.  Will  those  in  favor  of  Miss  Scoresby  please  hold 
up  their  hands?" 

"Stop !"  said  suddenly  a  voice  from  the  back  row,  and 
five  hands,  which  had  risen,  fell  again.  "Pardon  me,  Miss 
Chairman,  if  I  remind  you  that  you  have  omitted  one 
point  and  that  rather  an  important  one,  namely,  the  ques- 
tion whether  all  those  ladies  mentioned,  if  elected,  will 
accept  office." 

"My   dear   Miss    Scoresby,"    exclaimed    Miss    Penni- 


220  WINTERGREEN 

feather,  "surely  their  willingness  to  allow  themselves  to 
be  nominated  and  seconded  implies  that  they  are  willing 
to  accept  office." 

"I  am  sorry  to  disagree  with  the  chair,"  said  Miss 
Scoresby,  "but  for  my  part  nothing  will  induce  me  to 
take  the  post  of  secretary.  Let  those  who  were  thought 
worthy  of  preliminary  approach  suffice.  I  beg  that  my 
name  be  withdrawn  from  the  list  of  nominees." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Miss  Scoresby,"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Pennifeather  in  a  towering  passion,  "that 
you  have  come  here  to-day  and  allowed  the  time  of  this 
meeting  to  be  wasted,  simply  to  tell  us,  at  the  end  of  all 
the  delay  which  you  have  caused,  that  you  have  changed 
your  mind?  Then  allow  me  to  tell  you,  Miss  Scoresby, 
that  I  am  glad — extremely  glad — that  you  are  not  to  be 
our  secretary,  for  any  one  who  could  be  not  only  so  un- 
businesslike but  so  obstructive  is  unfit  for  any  post  what- 
ever." 

"Miss  Pennifeather,"  said  Miss  Scoresby,  rising,  "I 
am  convinced  that  you  in  my  place  would  now  leave  the 
meeting.  But  being  a  Christian  I  have  no  intention  of 
doing  so.  I  forgive  you,  Miss  Pennifeather." 

She  sat  down  amid  applause  from  Mrs.  Moncur  and 
her  seconder. 

Again  there  was  a  general  buzz,  and  Miss  Pennifeather 
had  begun  to  look  apoplectic  when  Jimmy  rose  once  more. 

"Miss  Pennifeather  and  ladies,"  she  said,  and  there 
was  silence.  "Since  Miss  Scoresby  has  withdrawn  her 
name,  there  can  now  be  no  difficulty.  Mrs.  Adair  and  I 
thank  you  for  the  honor  you  have  done  us  in  electing 
us  your  joint-secretaries,  and  in  accepting  office  we  de- 
mand that  you  now  proceed  to  the  next  business." 


CHAPTER  XII 
In  which  Thomasina  does  some  Thickening 

WHILE  these  things  were  going  on  in  the  Fortescues' 
drawing-room,  and  Miss  Clara  in  her  corner  was 
having  another  field-day,  Miss  Lydia  in  the  kitchen  was 
bearing  the  brunt  as  usual.  Clara  had  ordered  tea  for 
twenty-four,  and  then  handed  the  matter  over  to  her 
sister.  Lydia,  during  the  first  part  of  the  meeting,  there- 
fore, was  still  in  the  throes  of  preparation.  Though  she 
was  a  member  of  the  committee  she  had  heard  none  of  the 
opening  speeches.  Her  whole  attention  at  that  time  had 
been  occupied  in  looking  after  the  servants,  more  espe- 
cially Thomasina,  whom  Mrs.  Rutherford,  because  the 
Fortescues'  cook  was  on  holiday,  had  brought  with  her 
from  Longshaws. 

"I  am  sorry  I  could  not  bring  Eliza,"  she  had  said, 
"but  to  tell  you  the  truth  I  dare  not  ask  her.  She  is 
such  a  self-contained  woman,  one  never  knows  what  she 
may  answer.  So  I  have  just  brought  Thomasina,  but 
you  will  have  to  watch  her  with  the  china." 

Lydia  had  had  to  set  the  tea  herself  so  that  Thomasina 
might  not  handle  the  Rockingham  cups  and  saucers.  And 
after  the  dining-room  was  ready  she  left  it  in  charge  of 
Davina,  her  own  maid,  with  strict  injunctions  not  to 
allow  Thomasina  to  approach  it.  Then  she  went  upstairs. 

When  she  arrived  the  meeting  was  in  full  swing. 
Jimmy  was  seated  at -a  little  table  strenuously  taking  notes. 

221 


222  WINTERGREEN 

Alice,  beside  her,  outwardly  calm  but  inwardly  in  a 
fume,  was  handing  her  now  a  pencil,  now  an  india-rub- 
ber. Lydia  settled  down  at  last  to  enjoy  herself. 

Not  five  minutes  after  she  had  left  the  kitchen  Davina 
looked  up  from  the  jumper  she  was  knitting  for  herself. 

"Eh,"  she  said,  "I  've  forgot  the  milk.  Ye  micht  fill 
up  yon  jugs  in  the  pantry,  Thomasina !" 

"Right,"  said  Thomasina,  who  was  always  obliging. 
She  retired  to  the  pantry.  "Is  this  all  there  is  ?"  she  called 
presently. 

"Every  drop,"  said  Davina.  "There  was  some  to 
come  from  Longshaws,  but  Mrs.  Rutherford  forgot. 
They  're  terrible  short  in  Cauldstanes,  but  we  can  fill 
up  wi'  watter  if  it 's  no'  enough.  They  '11  a'  be  sae  thrang 
speakin'  that  they  '11  never  ken.  It 's  no'  like  a  tea  whaur 
there 's  naething  else  to  dae  but  look  at  what  they  're 
gettin'.  Fill  the  jugs  jist  half." 

"Right,"  said  Thomasina  once  more.  But  almost 
immediately  afterwards  a  suppressed  scream  and  a  crash 
of  crockery  came  simultaneously  from  the  pantry.  These 
sounds  were  followed  by  a  gurgling  noise. 

"Eh,  my  guid  black  dress !"  wailed  Thomasina. 

Flinging  down  her  jumper,  Davina  rushed  into  the 
pantry. 

"In  a'  the  airth!"  she  exclaimed.  "Hooever  did  ye 
dae  that?" 

A  big  jug  lay  on  its  side  with  two  small  jugs  smashed 
beneath  it.  Milk  lay  in  pools  on  the  floor,  in  splashes  on 
Thomasina,  on  the  wall,  everywhere,  except  where  it 
should  have  been. 

"Ye  goat !"  exclaimed  Davina,  wringing  her  hands. 

"It  was  my  cuffs,"  half  sobbed  Thomasina.     "Thae 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING     223 

cuffs  '11  be  my  death  yet.  I  broke  a  decanter  last  nicht 
wi'  them.  But  I  '11  rin  oot  an'  get  mair,"  she  added  dis- 
tractedly. 

"Mair  ?"  exclaimed  Davina.  "There 's  nae  mair  in 
Cauldstanes  till  six  o'clock.  They  're  terrible  short  the 
noo,  an'  the  dairy  's  closed  till  six.  Stop  though,"  she 
added,  "I  '11  tell  ye  whaur  ye  could  get  some  maybe. 
Jist  across  the  road  at  the  Bow  Hoose.  Wintergreen 
micht  be  able  to  gi'e  us  some.  Mrs.  Adair  's  a  great 
friend  o'  the  Miss  Fortescues.  Rin — quick — for  a'  ye  're 
worth!" 

As  she  spoke  she  began  scooping  up  all  the  milk  she 
could  from  the  floor  with  a  table  spoon. 

"What  the  e'e  doesna  see  the  hert  disna  scunner  at," 
she  said  to  herself  while  Thomasina  ran  as  for  her  life. 

Gardshore  had  that  morning  tendered  an  apology  to 
Wintergreen  for  what  he  called  his  disgusting  behavior 
of  the  night  before.  He  had  slept  since  for  a  few  hours, 
and  had  risen  sufficiently  refreshed  to  wish  at  least  to 
make  the  attempt  to  be  his  lighter  self.  But  to  Winter- 
green  this  phase  seemed  more  tragic  than  any  that  had 
preceded  it.  She  was  wae  for  him  in  that  gentle  propiti- 
atory mood.  When  Jack  and  Alice  had  left  the  house 
he  came  down  and  asked  if  he  could  help  by  way  of  com- 
pensation for  what  had  passed. 

"That  depends  upon  what  you  call  helping,"  she  said. 
"All  the  work  is  done,  but  I  like  to  see  you  there.  It 
will  soothe  and  amuse  me  when  I  am  at  my  hateful 
mending.  Sit  down  there  in  that  chair  and  have  a  sleep." 

He  laughed. 

"You  are  a  wonderful  woman,"  he  said.    "To  sit  there 


224  WINTERGREEN 

and  sleep  was  exactly  what  I  wanted.  I  have  so  often 
envied  dogs  on  hearth-rugs,  curled  up  and  comfortable, 
and  not  obliged  to  converse." 

"Curl  up  and  be  comfortable  then,"  said  Wintergreen, 
examining  a  table-cloth  in  which  were  several  holes. 
"And  be  glad  you  were  never  taught  to  do  this  dull  work," 
she  added. 

He  laughed  again,  and,  sitting  down  opposite  to  her, 
closed  his  eyes  and  soon  was  in  the  land  of  dreams. 

"He 's  tired  out,"  said  Wintergreen  to  herself ;  "too 
tired  even  to  think.  He's  having  a  little  respite  from 
whatever  it  is." 

But  whatever  was  it?  As  her  needle  and  thread  went 
in  and  out  mending  the  linen  according  to  its  own  pattern 
her  mind  worked  also  at  a  task  of  reconstruction;  upon 
something  more  difficult  than  any  pattern  that  was  ever 
woven.  What  had  happened  to  change  this  man  now 
lying  there  in  a  sleep  so  like  death  that  it  made  her  eery 
to  look  at  him  ?  What  had  happened  to  change  him  from 
a  being  half  mad  with  joy  to  a  being  half  mad  with  grief 
in  the  space  of  twenty-four  hours?  As  the  fire  crackled 
and  the  clock  ticked  she  recapitulated  in  her  mind  as 
much  as  she  knew  of  the  events  of  the  day  before. 

In  the  morning  he  had  not  worked.  He  had  repudi- 
ated his  promise  to  help  her  with  the  bookcases.  He 
had  cast  everything  to  the  winds  and  had  gone  out,  down 
to  the  sea — to  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky.  He  had  still 
been  happy,  not  with  the  wild  rapture  of  the  night  be- 
fore, but  with  something  perhaps  more  deep,  more  far- 
reaching.  He  had  settled  down  to  some  joyous  expecta- 
tion of  some  good  in  the  near  future.  He  had  come  in 
at  lunch-time  radiant  for  him,  and  had  eaten  an  excellent 
meal.  After  that — here  was  the  blank — what  had  hap- 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING     225 

pened  to  him?  She  had  supposed  him  to  be  going  again 
to  the  shore.  She  had  asked  him  if  he  would  be  back  for 
tea,  and  he  had  said :  "No — a  thousand  times  no." 

She  had  wondered  at  the  time  what  this  meant  exactly. 
But  according  to  her  custom  she  had  made  no  comment. 
There  had  been  in  him  at  that  moment  an  inner  glow 
apparent.  He  had  still  had  hope  with  him,  a  sense  of 
joyous  anticipation  when  he  had  left  the  house. 

But  when  she  had  been  sitting  at  tea  he  had  returned, 
and  said  quietly  that  he  wanted  nothing  but  to  be  left 
alone.  He  had  gone  up  to  his  room  and  had  remained 
there  until  supper-time.  Afterwards  had  come  the  fury, 
and  then  the  collapse. 

It  had  been  between  two  and  four  o'clock  then  that 
the  catastrophe  had  happened. 

That  there  had  been  catastrophe  was  certain.  The  joy 
had  been  effaced  by  grief.  Had  the  cause  of  the  joy 
then  been  removed?  Or  had  the  same  cause  served  for 
both,  so  that  what  had  caused  the  joy  now  caused  the 
grief  ? 

Here,  fortunately,  a  bell  rang,  and  forced  her  to  give 
her  brain  a  rest.  When  it  returned  to  the  problem  it 
was  clearer,  and  at  once  decided  that  the  cause  of  the 
whole  thing  had  been  the  letter  from  the  girl  called 
Jimmy. 

But  that  in  itself  was  the  most  puzzling  thing  of  all. 
In  the  afternoon  the  two  had  met  as  strangers.  Yet  in 
the  evening  he  had  received  her  letter  as  a  lover — as  a 
passionate  lover.  Had  they  not  been  so  aloof,  so  strange, 
so  uninteresting,  as  they  had  appeared  to  be  at  her  un- 
fortunate tea-party?  The  more  she  thought  of  things 
the  more  curious  they  became.  She  thought  of  Jimmy  at 
Brakely,  in  the  train,  as  she  had  last  seen  her,  and  lastly 


226  WINTERGREEN 

of  Jimmy  as  she  had  spoken  in  the  night  with  that  strange 
break  in  her  voice  that  had  sounded  like  a  sob. 

"I  had  to  know  to-night,"  she  had  said. 

She  had  had  to  know  whether  that  letter  had  been  de- 
livered. What  had  been  in  that  letter? 

"I  was  a  fool  not  to  let  him  tell  me,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"It  might  have  saved  a  lot  of  bother." 

Well,  it  was  too  late  now.  But  if  she  could  only  fill 
that  gap  in  the  history  of  the  day  before,  find  out  what 
he  had  done  between  two  and  four,  the  mystery  might 
be  solved.  Her  mind  worked  round  and  round.  She 
finished  one  table-cloth  and  had  begun  another  when,  to 
her  surprise  and  annoyance,  she  heard  some  one  entering 
the  house — some  one  breathing  hard  and  coming  at  full 
speed.  With  chagrin  she  remembered  that  she  had  left 
the  door  ajar. 

Then  suddenly  a  loud  knock  resounded  on  the  kitchen 
door. 

She  sprang  up  to  stop  the  intruder,  but  it  was  too  late. 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  her  knock,  Thomasina 
almost  fell  into  the  kitchen. 

"Hush!"  exclaimed  Wintergreen  softly  but  with  ve- 
hemence. "There  is  some  one  asleep.  Say  what  you 
have  to  say  quietly." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Thomasina  in  a  breathless  voice. 
"It 's  the  gentleman " 

Then  she  stood  staring  at  Gardshore  as  though  trans- 
fixed. 

"Go  on  with  your  message,  girl,"  said  Wintergreen 
sternly.  "You  want  milk  in  a  hurry.  Is  that  it?" 

"How  did  ye  know?"  exclaimed  Thomasina,  round- 
eyed. 

"•By  the  amount  on  your  apron  and  your  dress,"  re- 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING     227 

turned  Wintergreen.  "Well,  by  good  luck  I  can  give  you 
some.  Can  you  manage  to  carry  it  safely  back?" 

But  Thomasina  still  stood  staring  as  though  rooted 
to  the  spot. 

"You  cannot  know  this  gentleman,"  said  Wintergreen 
sharply.  "You  must  be  mistaking  him  for  some  one 
else.  Where  could  you  have  seen  him,  and  when  ?" 

The  reply  was  unexpected. 

"I  saw  him  yesterday  at  Longshaws,"  said  Thomasina. 

"What?"  exclaimed   Wintergreen. 

"Yesterday  at  Longshaws,"  said  Thomasina  again. 

Then  suddenly  recollecting  herself — "Eh,  mercy,  I 
forgot!"  she  exclaimed.  "He  gave  me  half  a  crown  not 
to  tell  he  was  there." 

"Then  you  'd  better  go  before  he  wakes,"  said  Winter- 
green,  repressing  a  smile.  "And — here — give  me  that 
milk.  I  want  to  see  it  safe  home." 

She  did  not  only  that,  but  she  saw  it  poured  into  all  the 
small  jugs  that  were  left  unbroken  and  set  on  the  trays 
allotted  to  them.  But  by  the  time  the  committee  rose 
she  was  back  in  her  kitchen  again  and  had  resumed  her 
reconstructing. 

And  now  the  gap  between  the  events  of  the  day  before 
had  been  filled.  Thomasina  had  left  more  behind  her 
than  she  had  taken  with  her ;  more  too  than  she  had  had 
any  right  to  leave,  as  she  very  soon  realized  to  her  own 
dismay.  Tea  was  not  over  before  she  had  recollected 
that  she  had  not  so  much  as  asked  Wintergreen  to  keep 
her  secret.  When  that  man  woke  Wintergreen  might 
tell  him  everything,  with  who  knew  what  woeful  conse- 
quences. It  was  impossible  to  go  home  to  Longshaws 
with  such  dreadful  possibilities  hanging  over  her. 

Wintergreen  was  interrupted,  therefore,  in  the  midst 


228  WINTERGREEN 

of  washing  up  after  tea  by  the  bell  ringing  again,  and 
there  was  Thomasina. 

"Oh,  I  came  please,"  she  said  breathlessly,  "to  ask 
ye  to  say  nothing  about  what  I  said  about — about  the 
gentleman." 

"My  girl,"  said  Wintergreen,  "I  am  not  in  the  habit  of 
repeating  things." 

"Oh,  but  ye  never  know,"  said  Thomasina,  "and  I 
thought  it  would  ease  my  mind  if  I  jist  asked." 

"You  were  told  not  to  tell  then?"  said  Wintergreen. 
"But  since  you  have  told  me  so  much  you  may  as  well 
tell  me  the  rest.  Half-confidences  lead  to  endless  con- 
fusion. Why  did  the  gentleman  tell  you  not  to  announce 
him?" 

"Well,  ye  see,"  said  Thomasina,  "he  couldna  be  an- 
nounced when  he  cam'  for  the  gentleman  from  Cauld- 
stanes  was  in,  an'  the  orders  was  that  Miss  Carmyle  was 
no'  to  be  at  home  to  anybody  else  when  he  was  there." 

"Oh,  it  was  Miss  Carmyle  who  was  at  home,  was  it?" 
said  Wintergreen. 

"Yes,"  said  Thomasina,  "the  others  was  out  at  a  party 
at  Hillside." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Wintergreen.  "And  the  gentleman 
from  Cauldstanes  had  come " 

r"Yes,"  said  Thomasina. 

"You  don't  know  his  name,  I  suppose?"  said  Winter- 
green. 

"No,"  said  Thomasina.  "I  canna  mind  it.  I  never 
could  mind  names.  But  he  was  a  fine  big  gentleman 
in  gray  tweeds,  an'  ridin'  a  bike,  an'  wi'  a  real  kind,  jolly 
face  on  him." 

Wintergreen's  own  face  grew  grave  at  this  descrip- 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING      229 

tion.  Jack,  she  remembered,  had  been  riding  a  "bike" 
that  day. 

"Well,  you  had  better  be  getting  along  now,"  she  said 
to  Thomasina.  "You  shall  come  to  no  harm  by  telling 
your  secret  to  me.  But  you  may  not  always  be  so  for- 
tunate. Guard  in  future  against  all  forms  of  milk- 
spilling." 

When  Thomasina  had  gone  and  she  had  finished  her 
washing  up,  she  came  back  to  the  kitchen  and  was  stand- 
ing looking  somberly  at  the  sleeper,  when  suddenly  some- 
thing in  his  expression  changed  and  a  moment  after  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  awake,"  he  said.  "I  awoke  when 
that  girl  knocked  at  the  door,  and  I  've  been  awake  since. 
I  was  too  miserable  to  move,  so  I  pretended  I  was  still 
asleep.  Mean  of  me,  wasn't  it?  I  have  heard  virtually 
all  you  Ve  said.  I  got  up  and  listened  just  now  too." 

At  this  she  came  forward,  and  taking  one  of  his  hands 
in  hers  she  patted  it  gently  while  he  remained  motionless, 
looking  up  at  her  with  hopeless  eyes. 

"I  'm  glad,  sir,"  she  said.  "For  now  you  know  that 
I  know  something  of  what  is  troubling  you,  and  that  I 
understand." 

"Don't  be  hard  on  her,"  he  said.  "She  meant  to  be 
kind.  It  was  I  that  mistook "  He  broke  off  sud- 
denly. 

"You  saw  how  I  received  her  letter,"  he  went  on  after 
a  moment.  "You  see — we  had  met  long  since — when 
she  was  engaged  to  some  one  else.  I  loved  her  before 
I  knew,  but  I  should  have  loved  her  in  any  case.  I 
shall  always  love  her,  Wintergreen.  But  I  had  thought 
she  was  married  long  ago,  and  when  I  heard  that 


230  WINTERGREEN 

she  had  broken  it  off — that  she  was  here — that  she 
actually  wanted  to  see  me — I  was  insane  enough  to  think. 
But  I  might  have  known  it  was  not  for  me  she  had  come, 
but  for  Adair — the  beautiful  youth. 

"Oh,  who  knows?  Perhaps  not,  sir,"  said  Winter- 
green. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up,  "don't 
you  begin  that  cheering  up,  cheering  up." 

"I  won't  then,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen.  "Honestly,  I 
think  you  're  right.  It 's  Jack,  as  she  calls  him,  that  she 
loves.  And  more 's  the  pity.  That 's  what  I  think." 

But  at  this  his  mood  changed  again. 

"You  think  I  am  right,  do  you?"  he  said  angrily. 
"Why  should  you  think  that?  Why  should  she  care 
for  him  more  than  for  me?  You  think,  I  suppose,  that, 
because  I  am  as  I  am  now,  she  could  never  have  loved 
me.  But  I  could  have  made  her  love  me  once.  She 
cried  when  I  went  out  of  her  life.  She  wept,  Winter- 
green  ;  wept  and  sobbed." 

"I  would  n't  build  too  much  on  that,  sir,"  she  answered. 
"You  see  she  would  be  so  sorry  for  you.  It  is  sometimes 
easier  to  weep  for  others  than  for  one's  self.  And  this 
letter  she  wrote — I  would  n't  build  too  much  on  that 
either.  That  would  be  the  same  thing.  She  would  only 
be  trying  to  make  up  for  pretending  not  to  know  you 
when  you  met  here." 

"Wintergreen,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  did  you  know?" 

"Oh,  that 's  easy  to  guess,  sir,"  she  said.  "And  no- 
body would  be  sorrier  than  she  when  her  plan  failed.  She 
would  mean  to  see  you  when  you  called." 

"If  she  did  not,  she  is  a  fiend  of  hell !"  exclaimed  Gard- 
shore.  "She  told  me  she  would  be  in  all  afternoon." 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING     231 

"Well,  so  she  was,"  said  Wintergreen.  "If  you  had 
waited " 

"Waited!"  he  cried.  "Waited  while  Adair  was  in? 
Waited  to  take  my  turn  after  Adair?" 

"Would  you  have  preferred  to  be  shown  in  while  he 
was  there?"  said  Wintergreen.  "Would  you  have  pre- 
ferred him  to  be  told  you  were  there?  My  dear  boy, 
don't  you  see  that  she  was  sparing  you?" 

"Sparing  me?"  exclaimed  Gardshore.  "Sparing  me? 
Do  you  call  that  sparing?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Wintergreen.  "And  nobody  would 
be  sorrier  than  she  that  you  did  not  come,  for  I  gather 
that  she  does  not  know  you  ever  came." 

"And  never  shall!"  exclaimed  Gardshore. 

"Very  well,"  said  Wintergreen.  "All  the  same  I  am 
sorry  for  her.  It  was  unfortunate  for  you  both  that  the 
other  came  in  just  then.  She  would  be  really  anxious 
to  see  you  alone  yesterday." 

"You  think  so  ?"  he  exclaimed  eagerly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "she  would  be  really  anxious 
to  have  peace  to  get  the  whole  thing  wound  up." 

At  this  he  laughed  aloud  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Wintergreen,"  he  said,  "you  must  have  been  a  shock- 
ing flirt.  But  there  is  something  about  you — what  is  it? 
— that  makes  me  feel  in  some  insane  sort  of  way  that  all 
is  not  over  yet.  I  believe  the  feeling  is  quite  misleading — 
like  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  But  I  think  that  if  I  were  at  the 
point  of  death  you  could  still  make  me  laugh  and  want  to 
get  up." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  "but  that 's  because  it 's 
in  yourself  that  will-o'-the-wisp,  as  you  call  it." 

"But  you  call  it  up,"  he  retorted.    "You  let  me  know 


232  WINTERGREEN 

it 's  there,  and  it 's  better  than  all  the  treatment  in  heaven 
or  on  the  earth." 

The  bell  rang  again  then,  and  for  a  long  time  there 
was  silence  between  them,  while  he  watched  her  go  to 
and  fro.  At  last,  however,  when  she  was  making  up 
rissoles  at  the  table,  he  said: 

"Why  is  it  better — your  treatment?" 

"Because  it  makes  you  forget  that  you  want  any," 
she  said  at  once,  as  though  there  had  been  no  interval. 
"It  makes  you  know  you  don't  want  any.  It  makes  your 
higher  self  remember  and  wake  up  and  take  the  poor, 
miserable,  despicable,  distraught  part  of  you  under  its 
control  again." 

"My  higher  self  ?"  he  said  doubtfully.    "What  is  that  ?" 

"Nobody  knows,"  she  said.  "But  we  've  all  got  it — 
the  meanest  of  us,  the  most  wretched — something  in- 
finitely great  and  powerful  and  unconquerable  that  only 
needs  waking  up." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  he  said  dejectedly.  "I  suppose  you 
mean  souls  and  that  kind  of  thing.  But  I  'm  long  past 
religion,  Wintergreen.  It 's  no  use  to  me.  I  never  pray 
now,  for  instance.  What  is  the  use  of  praying — when 
I  believe  what  I  believe?" 

"Then  you  do  believe  something,"  she  said,  mincing 
parsley  as  she  spoke. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  believe  that  there  is  a  higher  Order 
of  Great  Ones  who  trample  over  us  at  haphazard,  as 
we  do  over  the  small  creatures  that  creep  at  the  roots  of 
the  grass.  If  these  beings  we  crush  at  every  footstep 
were  to  pray  to  us,  would  it  make  much  difference? 
If  the  microbes  on  that  parsley  you  are  chopping  were 
to  pray  to  you,  would  you  stop  chopping  for  them?" 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING     233 

"No,"  said  Wintergreen,  "I  should  advise  them  to 
mind  their  own  business  and  let  me  mind  mine." 

He  laughed  again  in  spite  of  himself. 

"You  would  be  a  cruel  god,"  he  said.  "Then  I  sup- 
pose their  business  is  to  allow  themselves  cheerfully  to 
be  chopped  up?" 

"Yes,"  said  Wintergreen.  "If  they  Ve  anything  im- 
mortal about  them  they  '11  survive  it.  Let  them  trust  to 
that  immortal  thing,  pin  their  faith  to  it,  pray  to  it, 
and  not  to  me,  whose  business  it  is  to  do  the  chopping." 

He  laughed  again. 

"Well,  Wintergreen,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  you  are 
aware  that  you  are  frightfully  unorthodox,  but  one  thing 
is  certain,  your  religion  does  get  down  to  the  very  depths." 

"It  would  be  no  good  to  me  if  it  did  n't,"  she  said. 
"There  are  difficulties  that  require  emergency  methods 
to  meet  them.  You  can't  meet  them  on  the  level;  you 
must  either  get  above  them  or  below  them." 

Here  the  bell  rang  again  and  put  an  end  to  the  dis- 
cussion. 

The  tea-party  at  the  Fortescues'  was  not  the  only  one 
in  Cauldstanes  that  afternoon.  Down  near  the  harbor 
another  was  going  on  in  the  small  white  house  with  the 
black  water-barrel  at  the  door,  and  the  red-tiled  roof, 
which  was  the  residence  of  the  Dicks.  Mr.  Dick,  being 
now  on  day  duty,  was  unavoidably  absent,  but  his  wife 
was  more  than  capable  of  doing  the  honors  of  the  house. 
In  the  cessation  of  outside  work  which  had  followed 
her  ejection  from  the  Bow  House  she  had  been  concen- 
trating upon  her  "home,  with  the  result  that  it  now  looked 
as  though  an  earthquake  had  taken  place  there  which  had 


234  WINTERGREEN 

left  everything  at  right  angles  to  its  original  position. 
This  gave  her  no  concern,  however.  On  the  contrary 
she  was  rather  proud  of  it,  and  in  the  center  of  the  small 
space  left  for  social  purposes  she  sat  in  her  glory  with 
her  bare  arms  folded. 

The  tea-party  was  not  of  a  formal  nature.  Just  two 
or  three  of  the  neighbors  had  dropped  in.  Only  one  of 
them  wore  outdoor  attire — Miss  Ping  from  the  mixter- 
maxter  shop  next  door.  She  had  not  come,  however, 
from  her  place  of  business,  but  from  representing  her 
section  of  the  community  at  Miss  Penni feather's  meet- 
ing. 

"An'  I  didna  stay  to  the  tea,"  she  said.  "I  aye  like 
tea  at  my  ain  fireside." 

She  accepted  nevertheless  the  cup  which  Mrs.  Dick 
pressed  upon  her,  and  the  scone  which  another  guest 
handed  to  her. 

"Ay,  an'  how  did  ye  get  on  ?"  said  her  hostess,  settling 
herself  more  comfortably  in  her  chair.  "Miss  Penni- 
feather  would  be  yatterin'  to  ye  a'  at  an  awfu'  rate." 

"Ay,"  said  Miss  Ping,  taking  off  her  hat,  for  the 
elastic  had  been  hurting  her  all  the  afternoon.  "Ay,  I  had 
had  enough  by  the  time  the  tea  cam'  on.  Ye  '11  no'  be- 
lieve 't,  but  I  wasna  pit  on  a  single  subcommittee!  Efter 
a'  I  did  for  the  jumble  sale!  Faix  if  it  had  been  Miss 
Scoresby  was  pit  oot  as  weel  's  me." 

"Miss  Scoresby  ?"  exclaimed  a  chorus  of  voices.  "Miss 
Scoresby  pit  oot?  Never,  surely?" 

"Ay,"  said  Miss  Ping,  "an'  they  've  pit  on  a  young 
woman  for  secretary  that  has  nae  qualification  for 't  but 
impidence,  sae  far  as  I  can  see." 

"What 'n  a  young  woman's  that?"  said  Mrs.  Clapper- 
ton,  who  had  entered  as  Miss  Ping  began  to  speak.  "Ay, 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING     235 

Jane,  I  will  tak'  a  cup.  Nae  sugar  though.  I  brocht 
my  ain  sugar  wi'  me." 

"It 's  a  Miss  Carmyle,"  said  Miss  Ping.  "Faix  she 's 
no  backward  i'  the  speakin' !  She  has  the  gift  o'  the 
gab.  But  Miss  Scoresby  held  her  ain." 

Here  Miss  Ping  gave  a  vivid  description  of  the  nomi- 
nations. 

The  company  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  their 
cheeks. 

"Ay,  an'  they  '11  be  sorry  afore  they  Ve  done  wi'  *t," 
said  Mrs.  Dick,  wiping  her  eyes.  "Mrs.  Adair  's  no' 
naething  in  the  business  line,  an'  this  Miss  Carmyle  's  a 
queer  lass.  They  tell  me  she  's  aye  fleein'  aboot  wi'  the 
doctor.  An'  Fortescues'  Davina  was  doon  last  nicht 
seein'  me,  an'  she  heard  them  sayin'  to  ane  anither  ae 
nicht  that  the  doctor  had  kent  her  owre  weel  in  India. 
A  bonny-like  thing  a  young  man  awa'  frae  his  wife 
takin'  up  wi'  a  strange  woman.  An'  how  can  he  attend 
to  his  wark  when  he  's  aye  fleein'  aboot  like  a  whitterick  ? 
Eh,  I  wish  Dr.  Tully  was  back  again.  He  took  a  bit 
dram  maybe,  an'  wasna  aye  jist  himsel',  but  I  would 
rayther  ony  day  ha'  a  doctor  that  was  a  drinker  than  ane 
that  was  a  gallivanter." 

"Ay,  his  wife,  puir  crater,  had  better  look  oot,"  said 
Mrs.  Clapperton.  "The  doctor  was  at  Longshaws  him- 
sel' the  ither  night.  He  cam'  walkin'  in  wi'  Miss  Car- 
myle, an'  stayed  to  his  denner  when  Mistress  Rutherford 
was  oot.  I  was  there  mysel'  at  the  time  washin'  up, 
so  I  ken.  An'  anither  queer  thing,  Jane!  Miss  Carmyle 
sends  letters  to  yon  Wintergreen.  I  took  a  letter  to  her 
frae  Miss  Carmyle  mysel'  when  I  went  hame  that  nicht." 

"Mary  Clapperton,"  said  Mrs.  Dick,  hitting  the  table 
with  her  clenched  fist  so  that  the  cups  rattled,  "what  did 


236  WINTERGREEN 

I  tell  ye?  When  Wintergreen  cam'  to  the  Bow  Hoose, 
says  I,  she 's  no'  what  she  appears  to  be.  I  '11  no'  bide 
wi'  her." 

Mrs.  Dick's  hearers  received  this  new  version  of  the 
ejection  in  polite  silence;  all  except  one  woman,  a  new- 
comer, who  said: 

"But  I  thocht,  Mistress  Dick,  that  ye  had  to  clear  oot  ?" 

"Ay,  had  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Dick.  "Ony  decent  woman 
would  ha'  had  to  done  the  same." 

"Ay,"  said  Mrs.  McAllister,  who  was  another  guest. 
"An'  for  a'  her  years  she  's  an  awfu'  ane  for  the  men. 
Ye  should  ha'  heard  Alexander's  impidence  to  me  aboot 
coffee-beans.  Jist  because  she  'd  sent  him  oot  to  get 
them." 

"Ay,  an'  it 's  a  queer  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Dick.  "I  've 
thocht  aboot  it  aince  or  twice,  since  ye  tauld  me  aboot 
Miss  Carmyle.  She  cam'  to  Longshaws  an'  Wintergreen 
cam'  to  the  Bow  Hoose  the  very  same  nicht.  Is  that  no' 
a  queer  thing?" 

"Ay,  that 's  so,"  said  Mary.  "It  is  queer  when  ye  come 
to  think  o'  't.  An'  they  bit  notes  passin'.  If  I  was  Mis- 
tress Adair  I  wouldna  pit  up  wi'  't." 

The  subject  dropped  then,  but  when  the  new-comer 
and  others  less  intimate  had  taken  their  leave,  Mrs.  Dick, 
Mrs.  Clapperton,  and  Miss  Ping  drew  in  their  chairs 
again,  and  presently  the  conversation  returned  to  this  very 
point. 

"I  '11  bet  ye  onything  Mistress  Adair  wouldna  pit  up 
wi'  't  if  she  was  aware  o'  a'  that 's  takin'  place,"  said 
Mrs.  Clapperton.  "She  would  drum  that  Wintergreen  to 
the  door.  I  Ve  a  guid  mind  to  let  her  ken  mysel'." 

The  idea  was  like  fire  to  tow. 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING     237 

"What  d'ye  say  to  let  her  ken?"  said  Miss  Ping.  "It 
would  be  an  act  o'  kindness." 

"No  me,"  said  Mrs.  Dick.  "I'm  no'  gaun  near  the 
Bow  Hoose." 

"There  would  be  nae  need  to  gang  near 't,"  said  Miss 
Ping.  "We  could  write  a  letter  withoot  a  name  an'  in 
print  so  's  the  writin'  wouldna  be  reconnized." 

"I  'm  game !"  cried  Mrs.  Clapperton.  "An'  mak'  it 
that  nippy  that  Mistress  Adair  '11  set  her  fleein'  oot  o' 
Cauldstanes !  Auld  limmer !  Spilin'  a  guid  place  for 
better  folk!" 

"Print  awa'  then,  Ceely,"  added  Mrs.  Dick.  "An' 
I  '11  mask  anither  cup  o'  tea  to  ye.  There  '11  be  plenty 
time  to  get  it  done  afore  Dave  comes  hame.  An'  Mary 
there  '11  tak'  it  up  an'  pit  it  in  the  box  in  the  passin'." 

"I  '11  awa'  to  my  shop  for  some  paper  then,"  said  Ceely. 
"An'  a  pen  an'  ink." 

"Red  ink,  Ceely!"  said  Mrs.  Clapperton. 

"Ay,  red  ink,  Ceely!"  echoed  Mrs.  Dick.  "It'll  mak' 
it  look  mair  scorchin'-like !" 

As  soon  as  she  had  been  able  to  slip  away  from  the 
meeting  Alice  had  fled  across  the  street  again  to  adjust 
her  thoughts.  It  had  been  an  awful  afternoon.  It  had 
seemed  to  her  as  she  sat  in  the  crowded  drawing-room 
with  all  eyes,  as  she  imagined,  fixed  upon  her  and  all 
minds  busy  with  her  affairs,  that  her  visions  of  the  other 
evening  had  all  come  true  and  were  in  reality  worse  than 
she  had  ever  imagined.  The  faces  she  had  pictured  were 
more  terrible  when  they  were  actually  present.  She  re- 
membered especially  Miss  Clara's  peering  at  her  from  her 
corner,  Miss  Scoresby's  contemptuous  and  hostile,  Ada 


238  WINTERGREEN 

Apsley's  frankly  curious.  She  felt  as  though  she  never 
could  confront  them  again.  Yet  she  must  go  on  with  that 
dreadful  secretaryship  to  the  end  now.  If  she  gave  up 
now  they  would  all  say  that  it  was  because  of  Jimmy. 
She  went  into  the  drawing-room,  which  overlooked  the 
street,  and  looked  out  to  see  if  the  meeting  had  dispersed. 
She  wanted  to  see  Jimmy  leave.  She  had  stayed  behind 
to  help  Miss  Pennifeather.  But  they  had  not  wanted 
her.  She  had  offered  to  stay  too,  and  had  been  dismissed. 

"You-  are  sure  to  be  wanted  at  home,  my  dear,"  Miss 
Pennifeather  had  said.  "You  must  have  so  much  to  do 
at  the  Bow  House." 

The  words  repeated  themselves  in  her  mind  as  she  sat 
there  doing  nothing.  She  had  always  had  so  much  to 
do  before.  Now  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  worth  doing. 
What  was  the  use  of  fussing  when  Jack  noticed  nothing? 
For  herself  she  did  not  care  a  straw  now  whether  the 
house  went  to  rack  and  ruin. 

At  that  moment  she  heard  Wintergreen  moving  about 
downstairs,  and  remembered  that  it  was  mainly  because 
of  her  that  she  had  nothing  to  do  now.  What  an  amount 
that  woman  did!  How  splendidly  she  kept  the  house, 
never  resting,  never  ceasing  to  work  at  something  or 
another,  steadily  going  on  through  thick  and  thin,  while 
she  was  present  or  while  she  was  absent.  Truly  she  was 
a  wonder.  She  had  not  belied  her  own  report  of  herself. 

With  compunction  Alice  realized  how  little  she  had  done 
to  help  her,  how  little  interest  she  had  shown  in  her 
work.  She  had  simply  been  slacking  all  the  time;  or 
so  it  must  have  seemed  to  Wintergreen.  She  resolved 
there  and  then  to  go  down  and  look  through  the  rooms 
to  see  if  there  were  really  nothing  to  be  done.  There 
must  be  masses  of  mending  to  do  anyhow. 


THOMASINA  DOES  SOME  THICKENING     239 

As  she  went  she  saw  everywhere  evidences  of  the  new 
regime.  The  dusty  dimness  into  which  the  house  had 
sunk  under  her  own  and  Mrs.  Dick's  management  had 
for  the  most  part  already  disappeared.  The  mad  clock 
on  the  stairs  had  been  polished  up  and  set  to  the  right 
time. 

How  much  had  been  accomplished  in  how  short  a 
space !  A  sense  of  refuge  and  repose  began  to  steal  over 
her  as  she  found  some  sewing  in  the  dining-room  and  sat 
down.  The  knowledge  that  capability  and  devotion  to 
duty  were  in  the  house  there  with  her  was  in  itself  a 
rest. 

In  Wintergreen  at  least,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  could 
confidently  trust.  In  this  human  relationship  there  would 
be  no  storms  of  passion,  no  agonies  of  doubt  and  fear, 
only  quiet  refreshment.  The  evening  passed  on  to  supper- 
time,  and  still  she  sat  sewing  in  the  dining-room.  She 
was  no  bad  needle-woman,  and,  once  fairly  started,  she 
soon  became  interested  in  her  work.  She  became  keen 
to  finish  it  that  night,  and  could  hardly  bring  herself 
to  stop  when  supper  came  in  at  the  usual  time,  though 
Jack  had  not  yet  appeared.  .Her  new  approbation  of 
Wintergreen  did  not  cause  her  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  her.  She  was  aware  of  her,  however,  as  she  moved 
about  the  room,  with  something  of  Gardshore's  pleasure 
in  her  mere  presence. 

Her  work  was  finished  at  last  and  she  was  wondering 
what  she  should  do  next,  when  Wintergreen  came  in 
again. 

"I  found  this  just  now  in  the  box,  madam,"  she  said, 
presenting  a  letter  on  a  salver. 

She  left  the  room  and  Alice  looked  at  the  letter. 

It  had  no  stamp  or  postmark  on  the  envelope,  and  the 


240  WINTERGREEN 

address  was  printed  in  pale  ink.  Inside  there  was  a  sheet 
of  paper  covered  with  printing  in  red  ink.  Both  printing 
and  spelling  were  execrable,  but  quite  legible. 

"Mrs.  Adair  is  hereby  informed,"  the  letter  ran,  "  that 
there  is  living  in  her  house  under  the  name  of  Winter- 
green  one  who  has  no  right  to  be  there,  one  who  is  not 
what  she  appears  to  be,  one  who  is  a  spy  and  a  go-between 
set  there  by  her  enemies,  who  is  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing, 
a  wicked  wretch,  hiding  under  a  cloak  of  goodness. 
Let  Mrs  Adair  beware,  and  rid  her  house  as  soon  as 
possible  of  this  snake  that  is  worming  herself  into  her 
affairs  in  the  darkness. 

"This  is  from  one  who  knows." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

In    which    Wintergreen    perceives    the    Imminence    of 
Another  Occasion 

ALICE  had  read  the  letter  in  red  ink  twice  over  be- 
fore she  took  it  in.  At  the  third  reading,  however, 
its  full  meaning  dawned  upon  her,  and  it  was  as  though, 
stepping  on  to  a  pleasant  field,  she  had  found  it  to  be  a 
quagmire  into  which  she  had  suddenly  sunk  up  to  the 
neck.  It  seemed  at  that  moment  as  though  this  were 
the  worst  thing  that  had  yet  happened  to  her.  It  was 
incredible.  But  no ;  after  what  had  happened  to  Jack 
anything  could  be  believed.  Everything  and  anything 
was  possible.  The  foundations  of  the  world  were  rotten. 
And  this  new  misfortune  was  so  thorough,  so  dire,  so 
far-reaching.  Who  were  those  enemies  to  whom  the 
letter  referred?  She  was  afraid  to  think.  In  the  house 
with  her  besides  Wintergreen  were  only  Jack  and  Card- 
shore.  Gardshore  was  out  of  the  question,  as  he  was 
out  of  all  else,  a  mere  shadow  of  a  man  hovering  on  the 
outskirts  of  life.  Jack?  Jack  an  enemy?  Was  this 
possible?  Yet  who  else  was  there?  And  Jack  was 
bewitched,  enthralled  by  that  woman  with  her  beauty  and 
her  ready  tongue  and  her  quick  wit  that  had  dominated 
everything  that  afternoon,  that  had  made  her — Alice — 
seem  more  than  ever  a  nonentity,  a  schoolgirl,  a  fool, 
before  all  these  people.  Oh,  if  she  had  only  never  come ! 
Then  suddenly  she  remembered  also,  as  Mrs.  Clap- 
241 


242  WINTERGREEN 

perton  had  done,  that  Jimmy's  coming  had  coincided 
with  Wintergreen's.  They  had  arrived  on  the  same  night. 
Had  they  both  been  at  Brakely  then?  Had  Jack  met 
them  both?  Cold  horror  began  to  creep  over  her. 
Abysses  seemed  to  be  opening  up  before  her.  All  the 
dreadful  tales  she  had  heard  or  read  of  trusting  wives 
and  beglamored  husbands  and  skilful  go-betweens  came 
wreathing  round  her  into  the  quiet  cozy  room  like  stifling 
mists  from  a  nether  world. 

She  had  thrust  the  letter  into  the  fire  as  soon  as  she 
had  read  it  for  the  last  time,  but  it  seemed  to  be  burned 
into  her  memory.  It  seemed  to  be  written  in  letters  of 
flame  on  the  very  walls.  She  was  afraid  to  go  upstairs 
lest  she  should  see  it  written  there.  The  whole  Bow 
House  at  that  moment  seemed  to  be  one  of  those  enemies 
who  were  ranged  against  her  in  her  loneliness.  Even  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  seemed  to  have  in  it  something  sin- 
ister, as  though  it  were  relentlessly  marking  progress 
toward  some  dreadful  calamity. 

Drawing  her  chair  close  to  the  fire,  she  sat  trembling 
and  listening,  waiting  for  she  knew  not  what,  afraid  to 
see  Wintergreen  again,  afraid  that  Jack  would  come  in, 
afraid  to  move  from  where  she  was.  Sounds  from  the 
street  came  to  her  as  she  sat  there,  cheery  sounds  of 
people  laughing  .and  talking  together  as  they  passed  out- 
side the  gate.  Now  a  door  banged,  now  a  window 
closed.  Houses  were  being  shut  up  for  the  night,  happy 
homes  haunted  by  no  witches  with  red  hair  in  beautiful 
gray  garments  and  voices  full  of  laughter  and  every- 
thing else  that  made  a  fool  of  you,  infested  by  no  familiar 
spirits  in  black  caps  and  gowns  and  white  aprons  that 
seemed  to  be  angels  of  light  and  yet  were  snakes  in  the 
darkness.  A  deeper  sense  of  isolation  came  upon  her  as 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    243 

she  heard  the  homely  sounds  of  shutters  being  put  up  and 
doors  slamming  and  people  calling  good  night  to  each 
other.  But  soon  these  sounds  ceased  also.  Only  an 
occasional  footstep  passed  in  haste,  and  then  there  was 
silence  save  for  the  wind  whining  in  the  chimney  and  the 
sea  rolling  in  upon  the  beach.  This  last  was  the  worst. 
It  had  made  her  afraid  often  before  when  Jack  had  had 
to  go  out  at  nights.  It  had  seemed  so  fearsome  and  so 
near  behind  the  row  of  houses  opposite.  It  had  seemed 
to  her  as  though  death  were  lurking  there,  separated 
from  her  only  by  that  slight  barrier.  When  Jack  had 
been  there  the  thought  of  it  had  added  a  touch  of  passion 
to  her  happiness,  of  defiance,  of  recklessness.  Now  as 
she  sat  alone — more  alone  than  she  had  ever  been — it 
seemed  to  be  calling  to  her,  mocking  her,  defying  her. 

Then  suddenly  across  everything  the  telephone  bell 
rang.  It  startled  her  as  a  stab  might  have  done,  but  she 
did  not  rise  from  her  seat,  and  presently  the  kitchen 
door  opened  softly  and  Wintergreen's  firm  step  sounded 
outside.  Breathlessly  she  listened  while  Wintergreen 
spoke.  Next  moment  the  door  opened. 

"Miss  Carmyle  for  you,  madam,"  Wintergreen  said. 
"I  won't  answer,  I  won't  answer!"  Alice  felt  inclined 
to  shriek.    But  Wintergreen  had  gone  away.     She  went 
out  and  took  up  the  receiver. 

"Hallo,"  she  said  faintly.  It  sounded  like  a  whisper 
at  the  other  end.  But  Jimmy  was  listening  hard. 

"Hallo?"  she  answered  at  once.  "Is  that  you,  Mrs. 
Adair?  I  forgot  to  say  to-day  in  all  the  turmoil  how 
sorry  I  was  to  have  missed  you  when  you  called  yesterday. 
May  I  come  to-morrow  and  have  a  talk  with  you  about 
this  fete  ?  It 's  no  good  attempting  to  discuss  things 
quietly  when  Miss  Pennifeather  is  about,  and  we  must 


244  WINTERGREEN 

get  things  fixed  up,  arrange  what  you  have  to  do  and 
what  I  have  to  do,  before  we  get  to  work." 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly,"  Alice  found  herself  saying  in 
reply.  She  felt  as  though  it  were  some  one  else  speaking 
with  her  voice.  "Oh,  yes,  of  course;  I  should  have 
arranged  it  this  afternoon.  Will  you  come  to  tea  to- 
morrow, and  then  we  can  talk  things  over?" 

"Thanks  very  much,"  was  the  reply,  "but  I  can't 
come  to  tea  to-morrow.  I  have  arranged  with  Mr. 
Rutherford  that  he  is  to  take  me  in  the  runabout  all 
around  the  country  to  see  people  about  the  produce-stall. 
But  may  I  come  in  the  morning  if  you  are  not  too  busy  ?" 

"Certainly,"  Alice  found  herself  saying  again.  "I 
shall  be  delighted.  Just  come  when  it  suits  you." 

"Very  well,"  said  Jimmy.  "Ten  o'clock  then.  The 
sooner  we  get  going  the  better.  And  perhaps  you  might 
tell  Ja — Dr.  Adair  to  do  what  he  can  for  us  when  he  is 
going  round  among  his  patients." 

Alice  had  heard  only  one  word  of  this  last  speech.  At 
least  only  one  remained  with  her. 

"She  was  going  to  say  Jack,"  she  said  to  herself  as 
Jimmy  rang  off.  "She  calls  him  Jack  when  they  are 
alone  together." 

Having  forgotten  all  the  remainder  of  the  speech  she 
did  not  tell  Jack. 

"That 's  a  pity,"  said  Jimmy,  when  next  day  she  dis- 
covered this.  "But  never  mind,  I  '11  tell  him  when  he 
comes  to-night  to  practice.  By  the  way,  I  was  to  ask  you 
from  Mrs.  Rutherford  if  you  would  come  too.  We  're  to 
dine  at  eight  as  Mr.  Rutherford  and  I  may  be  late,  and 
then  have  the  minuet  afterwards." 

"The  minuet?"  exclaimed  Alice. 

"What,  haven't  you  heard  of  it?"  exclaimed  Jimmy. 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    245 

"Well  that's  too  bad  of  Jack!  You  don't  mind  my 
calling  him  that,  do  you?  You  see  we  got  so  used  to 
it  at  Alimara.  Honestly,  you  don't  mind,  do  you  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Alice. 

"And  I  may  call  you  Alice,  mayn't  I?"  Jimmy  went 
on.  "And  do  call  me  Jimmy.  You  see  we  have  heard 
so  much  about  each  other.  It  seems  natural,  does  n't 
it?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Alice. 

With  Miss  Penni feather  she  had  felt  as  though  she 
were  shooting  rapids.  With  Jimmy  she  felt  as  though 
she  were  the  tail  of  a  kite  being  blown  hither  and  thither 
in  a  genial  wind,  regardless  of  all  the  considerations  of 
the  earth,  and  totally  in  ignorance  of  where  she  would 
land  next. 

"But  about  that  minuet,"  Jimmy  went  on,  lighting 
another  cigarette.  She  had  already  smoked  two  since  she 
came  that  morning  while  she  sat  discussing  and  scrib- 
bling and  arranging.  "It 's  a  ripping  thing  by  Massanet, 
called  'Marquise.'  And  Jack  does  look  jolly  in  it;  you  '11 
love  to  see  it !" 

"But — but  do  you  mean — does  he  dance  it?"  asked 
Alice  faintly. 

At  this  Jimmy  laughed  aloud. 

"What  else  could  he  do  with  it?"  she  asked.  "You 
know — poor  dear — he  can't  sing  for  nuts." 

And  she  did  not  apologize  this  time  either.  She  had 
not  noticed  that  there  was  anything  to  apologize  for. 

But  Alice  rose  from  her  seat. 

"Well,  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  stiffly.  "Will  you  tell  Mrs. 
Rutherford  I  am  sorry !  I  can't  come  to  dinner  to-night. 
I — I  have  another  engagement." 

"Oh,  but  that 's  a  pity,"  said  Jimmy,  knocking  the  ash 


246  WINTERGREEN 

off  the  end  of  her  cigarette.  "Is  it  very  important? 
Couldn't  you  get  off?" 

"No,  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Alice. 

"Oh,  well,  another  time,"  said  Jimmy.  "We  '11  be 
having  lots  of  practices,  I  dare  say.  I  wish  you  could 
have  sung  it.  That  would  have  been  splendid.  But  Ada 
Apsley  does  it  really  well." 

"Oh,  Ada  Apsley  sings  it,  does  she?"  said  Alice, 
thinking  of  Ada's  hateful,  curious  face. 

"Yes,  and  it  is  she  who  insists  on  our  doing  it," 
said  Jimmy.  "You  see  she  is  arranging  the  concert. 
She  rang  me  up  last  night.  She  sang  it  for  me  and  Mr. 
R.  the  other  night,  and  quite  inspired  us  both.  I  wanted 
Mr.  R.  to  do  it.  It  would  have  been  the  sensation  of  the 
day :  the  laird  of  Langshaws  in  old  rose  and  silver — they 
have  a  lovely  costume  at  Longshaws, — but  Mrs.  R.  won't 
hear  of  it." 

"And  neither  will  I  hear  Jack  doing  it!"  Alice  had 
almost  shrieked.  "It 's  much  worse  for  Jack  doing  it 
than  for  old  Mr.  Rutherford."  But  she  held  her  peace 
though  she  was  seething  inwardly.  What  was  the  use 
speaking  with  every  one  of  them  against  her — Jack  most 
of  all.  It  was  all  arranged  evidently,  fixed  up,  settled, 
and  again  he  had  not  told  her.  Now  that  she  thought  of 
it  she  had  heard  him  speaking  at  the  telephone  the  night 
before,  after  she  had  gone  to  bed.  The  other  speaker 
had  hsen  Ada  Apsley,  but  Alice  did  not  know  this.  To 
her  distracted  imagination  she  appeared  caught  in  a  web 
of  mysteries  and  surprises. 

One  thing  was  certain,  however.  Whatever  Winter- 
green  might  be — go-between,  wolf,  familiar  spirit, — she 
could  not  now  do  without  her.  Without  her  the  Bow 
House  not  only  as  a  dwelling  but  as  a  base  for  Jack's 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    247 

work,  would  literally  go  to  rack  and  ruin.  For  though 
Alice  had  been  dismissed  from  the  supreme  councils 
on  that  first  evening  because  of  her  supposed  occupations, 
no  more  thought  was  taken  for  them  afterwards.  Miss 
Pennifeather  became  her  sole  occupation.  Not  that  she 
did  much  when  Miss  Pennifeather  was  actually  present, 
but  to  all  the  numerous  subcommittee  meetings  she  had 
to  go  and  take  notes  for  the  benefit  of  her  chief.  As 
these  were  generally  so  badly  written  that  only  she  her- 
self could  read  them  she  had  to  copy  them  again  when  she 
got  home  in  order  that  Miss  Pennifeather  might  consu/t 
them.  Thus  without  being  actually  present  that  lady  was 
kept  in  touch  with  everything.  Alice  was  a  secretary 
after  her  own  heart.  Jimmy,  however,  was  another 
matter. 

When  she  had  finished  with  the  arrangements  for  the 
fete,  Miss  Pennifeather,  as  she  said,  hardly  knew  them 
again.  If  they  wanted  fresh  air  they  certainly  had  it 
in  full  measure.  No  one  who  took  part  in  them  will 
ever  forget  those  committee  meetings. 

Certain  it  is,  however,  that  never  had  there  been  such 
enthusiasm  in  the  neighborhood,  such  curiosity,  such  in- 
terest about  anything  of  the  kind  since  the  war  began. 
Like  other  women  in  history  who  have  raised  regiments 
and  led  revolutions  for  the  sake  of  one  man,  so  did 
Jimmy.  She  used  in  her  campaign  all  the  charm  of  her 
personality,  all  her  tact,  all  her  wit,  and  the  countryside 
rose  to  her.  She  worked  and  laughed  and  persuaded  and 
strove  for  success,  not  for  the  great  company  of  the 
disabled,  but  for  one  disabled  soldier.  He  was  still 
there.  She  had  seen  him  in  the  hall  at  the  Bow  House 
one  day,  and  they  had  bowed  silently  in  passing.  Again 
they  had  met  once  on  the  road  above  Cauldstanes,  and 


248  WINTERGREEN 

again  they  had  passed  in  silence.  Well,  anyhow,  she 
resolved,  if  he  will  not  speak  to  me  he  shall  hear  of  me. 
He  shall  see  that  I  care  as  little  as  he  does;  that  if 
he  thinks  nothing  of  me,  others  do. 

The  thought  of  Gardshore  watching  coldly  in  the  back- 
ground spurred  her  on  to  greater  and  greater  efforts. 

Meanwhile  the  watcher  was  anything  but  the  in- 
different being  that  he  was  supposed  to  be. 

"Wintergreen,"  he  said  one  night  a  fortnight  later, 
"I  don't  think  I  can  go  on  with  it.  You  may  think  you 
are  curing  me,  but  you  are  not,  you  know.  It 's  all  very 
well  to  say  show  her  you  don't  care  and  you  will  come 
not  to  care.  It 's  a  lie,  Wintergreen.  It 's  a  fallacy.  I 
passed  her  on  the  road  to-day,  and  I  have  n't  recovered 
yet.  I  felt  better  when  I  never  saw  her.  At  least  I  did  n't 
feel  worse.  I  could  n't." 

"Well,  now  that  you  've  reached  the  worst  you  may 
get  better,"  said  Wintergreen. 

"You  're  a  pitiless  woman,"  he  said.  "I  sometimes 
hate  you.  If  you  had  n't  made  me  promise  to  wait  a 
month,  I  'd  have  been  over  the  top  long  ago  and  dead 
and  done  with  it." 

"Now,  I  won't  have  that,"  said  Wintergreen.  "There 
is  no  compulsion  in  the  matter.  You  know  that,  when- 
ever you  really  want  me  to  help  you  over,  I  am  ready  and 
willing  to  do  it." 

"And  to  despise  me  all  the  time  for  doing  it,"  said 
Gardshore.  "And  yet  you  say  there  is  no  compulsion. 
There  is  a  refinement  of  cruelty  about  you,  Wintergreen, 
that  would  have  been  worthy  of  a  grand  inquisitor.  You 
wound  not  the  flesh  but  the  spirit.  You  are  like  the 
vulture  that  tore  the  innards  of  Prometheus.  I  can 
find  no  language  to  describe  you." 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    249 

"Don't  describe  me  then,"  she  said.  "Obey  me  rather 
until  you  cannot  do  so  any  longer.  Then  I  '11  obey  you, 
and  I  '11  promise  that  I  won't  despise  you." 

"Honestly?" 

"Honestly." 

"Then  that's  a  bargain,"  he  concluded. 

This  was  three  nights  before  the  day  of  the  fete.  The 
fortnight  and  four  days  had  passed  like  a  dream  to  Alice, 
a  hectic  nightmare,  a  cinematographic  succession  of 
scenes.  The  one  stable  point  in  the  general  chaos  of  her 
world  was  Wintergreen,  and  Wintergreen  was  a  fraud, 
they  had  said.  She  remembered  sometimes  with  a  sick 
sinking  feeling  that  afterwards,  when  the  rapids  were 
passed,  she  would  have  to  deal  with  her.  Till  then  she 
must  cling  to  her,  whatever  she  was,  like  grim  death. 
She  was  at  least  an  ideal  cook-housekeeper.  She  was 
never  out,  never  absent  from  her  post,  never  late,  always 
ready  for  anything,  from  breakfast  an  hour  earlier  to 
supper  hours  later.  Nothing,  as  Alexander  said,  ever 
put  her  about. 

On  the  morning  after  her  conversation  with  Card- 
shore  Alexander  appeared  in  the  kitchen.  The  motor 
was  at  the  door,  and  they  were  going  out  again,  but  some 
one  had  intercepted  the  doctor  and  was  now  in  the 
consulting-room  with  him. 

"It's  yon  Miss  Ping  from  the  Harbor  Road,"  said 
Alexander  in  a  subdued  voice.  "An'  I  want  a  word  wi' 
you  aboot  her.  I  'm  thinkin'  she  may  be  up  to  nae  guid 
comin'  here.  She 's  been  makin'  mischief  through  a' 
the  place  aboot  you  an'  the  doctor." 

"About  me  and  the  doctor?"  exclaimed  Wintergreen. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 


250  WINTERGREEN 

"I  dinna  richtly  ken  mysel',"  said  Alexander.  "But 
I  thocht  ye  was  better  to  ken  about  it.  There  's  a  set 
o'  them  there  that 's  a'  agin  ye.  Mrs.  Dick  at  the  fore- 
front an'  Mrs.  Clapperton  an'  this  Miss  Ping.  What 
they  're  up  till  I  canna  tell  ye,  but  it 's  owre  the  place 
doon  there  that  they  '11  never  rest  till  they  get  ye  drummed 
oot  o'  Cauldstanes." 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  Wintergreen.  "And  what  about 
the  doctor?" 

"Ay,  that's  anither  thing,"  said  Alexander.  "It  may 
be  waur  for  him  than  for  you.  It 's  no'  sae  bad  to  be 
obleeged  to  leave  a  place  as  to  ha'  the  place  leave  you." 

"Oh,  such  people  could  not  accomplish  that,"  said 
Wintergreen.  "I  suppose  you  mean  that  they  want  to 
injure  his  practice.  But  they  could  n't  do  that  any  more 
than  they  could  injure  me.  People  like  them  are  of 
no  consequence." 

"Are  they  no'?"  said  Alexander.  "Ye  would  wonder. 
The  ither  nicht  when  the  motor  stuck  I  was  workin'  at  it 
till  mornin'  an'  couldna  find  what  was  wrang,  an'  it  was 
jist  some  dirt  that  had  got  into  the  works.  True  or  no' 
there's  tales  fleein'  aboot  Cauldstanes.  Is't  the  case 
that  the  doctor's  gane  daft  aboot  Miss  Carmyle?" 

"No,"  said  Wintergreen,  though  her  mind  misgave 
her.  "No,  that 's  an  absolute  lie,"  she  added. 

"Eh,  I  'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Alexander.  "A'  the 
same,  mind  ye,  I  was  young  once  an'  fond  o'  the  lassies 
mysel',  an'  yon  Miss  Carmyle 's  as  bonny  a  ane  as  ever 
I  saw.  But  he  '11  need  to  tak'  care,  Wintergreen.  The 
folks  is  a'  speakin'  aboot  him.  An'  he  's  dancin'  at  the 
fete  wi'  her,  at  Pitcaple,  I  see.  An'  a'  the  countryside  's 
comin'  to  see  them," 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    251 

"Well,  they  '11  see  a  very  pretty  couple,"  said  Winter- 
green.  "Evil  be  to  him  who  evil  thinks.  As  for  you 
and  me,  Alexander,  we  must  back  our  young  master 
through  thick  and  thin,  anyhow." 

"Richt  ye  are,  Wintergreen,"  said  Alexander.  "I  '11 
back  you  onyway.  An'  ye  're  richt  aboot  the  evil  thinkin', 
but  I  wish  he  wasna  dancin'  wi'  her  at  Pitcaple." 

They  had  both  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  the  in- 
terview Wintergreen's  own  share  in  the  opprobrium 
emanating  from  the  Harbor  Road,  and  Wintergreen's 
mind  was  entirely  occupied  with  the  bulletin  of  outside 
opinion  regarding  Jack  when  the  door  opened  and  the 
subject  of  her  thoughts  looked  in. 

Seeing  that  she  was  there,  he  came  in  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

"Wintergreen,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  do  something 
for  me.  A  Miss  Ping  is  in  the  consulting-room." 

He  paused. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  said. 

"She  came  to  me  some  minutes  ago  about  what  she 
thought  a  trifling  thing,"  he  went  on.  "And  I  have  found 
that  she  requires  immediate  operation — a  serious  opera- 
tion— if  she  is  to  be  saved  from — from  suffering — and 
death.  I  think  that  we  could  be  in  time  yet  to  do  that  if 
we  could  get  her  to  go  to  the  hospital  now — if  not " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen.     "I  understand." 

"But  she  is  in  terrible  distress,"  he  went  on.  "She 
will  not  hear  of  it.  Of  course  I  have  not  told  her 
everything,  but  she  knows  that  there  must  be  cutting,  as 
she  calls  it,  and  go  to  the  hospital  she  will  not  for  me. 
Yet  that  is  absolutely  necessary.  It  is  too  big  a  thing 
to  do  here.  I  can  be  back  at  two  and  motor  her  over 


252  WINTERGREEN 

if  you  can  persuade  her  to  go.  I  am  late  now  for  another 
urgent  case.  I  have  seen  how  you  can  manage  can- 
tankerous people ;  can  you  manage  this  one  for  me  ?" 

"I  '11  try,  sir,  anyhow,"  said  Wintergreen. 

When  he  had  gone  she  finished  what  she  had  been 
doing  when  he  came  in,  and  rather  more  carefully  than 
usual.  Then  filling  some  cold  water  into  a  tumbler  she 
drank  it  off. 

"Now,  come  on,"  she  adjured  herself. 

It  was  a  kind  of  prayer,  and  repeating  it  as  she  went  she 
left  the  kitchen,  crossed  the  hall,  and  stood  listening  for  a 
moment  outside  the  door  of  the  consulting-room. 

A  low  sound  of  sobbing  and  moaning  came  to  her. 

So  this  was  the  dangerous  character  Alexander  had 
announced? 

It  sounded  more  like  a  whimpering  child. 

A  wail  of  terror  greeted  her  as  she  entered. 

Miss  Ping,  a  little  broken  wisp  of  a  woman,  was  sit- 
ting on  the  sofa,  with  her  hat  beside  her  and  her  face 
covered  with  her  hands. 

"It's  nae  use!"  she  half  sobbed.  "I  canna  gang,  doc- 
tor. I  've  tried  to  mak'  up  my  mind.  But  I  canna  gang. 
I  canna  gang.  If  there  's  to  be  cuttin'  I  'd  rayther  be  as 
I  am — I  'd  rayther " 

Here  she  looked  up  and  saw  Wintergreen.  Her  gray 
face  turned  into  that  of  a  fury. 

"You?"  she  exclaimed.    "Wha  sent  you  here?" 

"The  doctor,"  said  Wintergreen.  "He  has  been  obliged 
to  go  out  to  another  case.  He  told  me  to  tell  you " 

The  fury  changed  suddenly  into  blank  dismay. 

"Gone?"  she  exclaimed.  "Gone?  He  has  given  me 
up  then?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Wintergreen  quickly.     "On  the  con- 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    253 

trary,  he  is  going  to  make  arrangements  to  come  back 
for  you  at  two  o'clock." 

"Oh,  but  I  canna  gang,"  shrieked  the  unfortunate 
creature. 

"Very  well,"  said  Wintergreen  quietly.  "I  shall  let 
him  know  when  he  comes  that  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  not  to  go.  Well,  I  quite  understand.  All  the  same, 
I  must  say  I  think  you  are  a  brave  woman." 

At  this  Miss  Ping  looked  up,  startled. 

"Brave?"  she  exclaimed  hoarsely. 

"Yes,"  said  Wintergreen.  "It 's  much  braver  to  face 
long  increasing  pain,  ending  in  a  dreadful  death,  than 
to  face  an  operation  which  will  be  soon  over,  and  dur- 
ing which  you  will  feel  absolutely  nothing." 

"Eh,  he  never  said  that,"  sobbed  Miss  Ping.  "He 
never  said  that.  He  never  said  that  I  would  dee." 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  Wintergreen.  "If  you  go  at  once 
you  may  arrive  in  time  to  have  the  operation  done  to- 
morrow. I  know  it  is  easy  for  me  to  speak,  sitting  here 
as  I  am,  hale  and  hearty,  but  as  God  is  my  witness  were 
I  in  your  place  I  would  not  hesitate  for  a  single  mo- 
ment. I  would  run  for  my  life  as  I  would  flee  from  a 
blazing  house." 

This  time  Miss  Ping  did  not  answer  but  sat  staring 
before  her  with  despairing  acquiescence  in  her  eyes. 

"Is  there  any  one  you  would  like  me  to  send  for  to  be 
with  you?"  Wintergreen  said  then,  risking  a  conclusion. 

"Oh,  no;  oh,  no,"  cried  Miss  Ping,  warding  off  even 
the  thought.  "I  'd  rayther  gang  my  lane.  They  'd  a' 
be  speakin'  aboot  it.  They  would  a'  ken." 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  said  Wintergreen.  "The  fewer 
people  who  know  about  it  the  better.  There  will  be  no 
need  for  you  to  go  home  at  all  now.  I  can  lend  you  what 


254  WINTERGREEN 

you  need  and  make  any  arrangements  you  want  made." 

She  had  expected  another  outburst  at  this,  but  Miss 
Ping  sat  motionless  and  speechless,  like  one  who  has  been 
pinioned  for  execution  watching  without  hope  of  escape 
the  preparations  of  his  captors.  But  though  she  was 
acquiescent  she  was  not  yet  indifferent. 

Suddenly  with  a  wild  cry  she  flung  herself  forward 
again,  and  with  her  head  on  her  knees  and  her  hands 
clasped  behind  it  she  sobbed  convulsively  in  an  agony 
of  bitter  weeping. 

At  this  Wintergreen  sat  down  beside  her  and  put  her 
arm  around  her. 

"God  help  you,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "In  His  great 
hand  we  stand." 

"No  me ;  no  me,"  cried  Miss  Ping.  "I  'm  a  wicked 
woman.  If  I  die  under  the  chloroform  I  '11  go  to  hell 
straight." 

"No,"  said  Wintergreen,  "not  if  you  pray  to  the  One 
Above  to  save  you.  Pray  to  that  One  Above.  Call  him 
Christ  or  Savior  or  what  you  will." 

"Oh,  but  I  'm  too  bad ;  I  'm  too  bad,"  she  moaned. 
"I  've  sins  to  confess,  an'  I  canna  confess  them." 

"Confess  them  to  God,"  said  Wintergreen.  "There 
is  no  need  to  confess  them  to  any  other." 

Miss  Ping  did  not  reply,  but  after  a  time  her  sobs 
grew  quieter. 

"Come  with  me  now,"  said  Wintergreen  at  last.  "I 
must  go  and  look  after  the  dinner.  I  can  smell  something 
burning  now." 

Miss  Ping  rose  passively,  and,  carrying  her  hat  in  her 
hand,  came  with  her  to  the  kitchen. 

Wintergreen  established  her  in  a  basket  chair,  and 
for  a  long  time  there  was  silence  while  she  went  to  and 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    255 

fro,  and  her  guest,  exhausted,  sat  and  watched  her,  some- 
times sobbing  a  little  but  mostly  quiet.  At  last,  however, 
she  began  giving  directions  about  her  shop  and  her  house, 
and  the  thought  of  her  old  life,  over  perhaps  for  ever, 
aroused  once  more  the  first  agony  for  a  moment. 

"It 's  a'  very  weel  for  you,"  she  cried.  "It 's  a'  very 
weel  for  you.  You  '11  be  workin'  comfortable  the  same  's 
ye  are  now  in  yer  kitchen  here,  when  I  m " 

The  last  words  were  inaudible. 

Wintergreen  stopped  stirring  and  set  the  pot  on  one 
side.  Then  she  came  and  kneeled  before  the  basket  chair, 
and  taking  Miss  Ping's  two  hands  from  her  face  said: 

"No,  I  promise  you  that.  I  shall  not  be  working  then. 
The  doctor  will  tell  me  the  time,  and  I  shall  be  thinking 
of  you,  praying  for  you." 

"Will  ye?"  cried  Miss  Ping  eagerly,  with  the  tears 
rolling  down  her  cheeks.  "Will  ye  ?  For  me  ?  Ay,  ye  're 
a  guid  woman.  Will  ye  pray  that  I  '11  feel  nothing — efter 
— efter " 

"No,"  said  Wintergreen,  "for  that  would  be  no  use, 
but  I  will  pray  that  you  may  be  able  to  meet  bravely  all 
that  may  be  coming  to  you." 

"Pray  now  then,"  said  the  woman.  "I  canna  pray 
mysel'.  An'  I  'm  feared  to  gang  withoot  a  word  o'  prayer 
frae  onybody." 

"Father  of  Jesus  Christ  and  this  woman,"  said  Winter- 
green,  covering  her  own  face,  "awake  the  immortal  spirit 
in  her,  that  she  may  be  kept,  in  any  valley  of  pain  she  may 
have  to  pass  through,  undismayed  and  unconquerable. 
Amen." 

"That 's  a  queer  prayer,"  said  Miss  Ping,  drawing  a 
long  breath.  "But  it's  graund." 

After  that  no  more  was  said  till  Wintergreen  had  set 


256  WINTERGREEN 

the  dinner.    Then  she  indicated  another  seat  to  her  guest. 

"No,  no,"  said  Miss  Ping,  shrinking  back  into  her 
basket  chair.  "I  canna  sit  doon  wi'  you;  I'll  jist  tak'  a 
piece  here." 

So  she  had  a  piece  there  while  Wintergreen  to  please 
her  made  a  pretense  of  eating.  Afterwards  she  took  up 
lunch  to  Gardshore,  who  was  writing  and  hardly  looked 
up. 

Alice  was  still  out. 

Then  a  small  bag  was  packed  with  necessaries.  Miss 
Ping  put  on  her  hat  again,  and  the  two  sat  silent,  wait- 
ing. Presently  the  motor  buzzed  and  whirred  up  to  the 
front  door.  At  the  sound  of  it  they  rose  by  one  consent. 

"Good-by,"  said  Miss  Ping,  looking  steadily  into  her 
new  friend's  eyes,  and  holding  out  a  bony,  cotton-gloved 
hand. 

But  Wintergreen  put  it  aside,  and,  taking  its  owner  by 
her  thin  shoulders,  she  drew  her  towards  her  and  kissed 
her  on  both  cheeks. 

Half  an  hour  later  when  Alice  came  in  at  the  front 
door  Wintergreen,  for  the  first  time  when  there  were 
things  to  be  done,  was  sitting  absolutely  idle  in  the  kitchen. 
She  had  not  moved  since  she  had  sat  down  after  waving 
farewell  to  the  little  veiled  figure  in  the  motor. 

Even  now  she  did  not  move  immediately.  The  short 
interview  with  Miss  Ping  had  left  her  indifferent  to  all 
lesser  matters  than  dire  physical  catastrophe  and  imminent 
death.  It  worried  her  that  Alice  should  come  in  just 
now.  She  had  not  expected  her  till  tea-time  at  the  soon- 
est. 

She  forced  herself  to  rise,  however,  and  went  into  the 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    257 

dining-room.  Alice  was  standing  by  the  table  with  a 
sheaf  of  notes  in  her  hand,  and  Wintergreen  was  struck 
by  the  haggard  pallor  of  her  young  face.  It  irritated  her 
just  then  with  the  memory  of  her  last  interview  in  her 
mind.  Why  should  a  young  woman  with  everything  her 
heart  could  desire  look  like  a  tragedy  queen?  It  was 
insufferable.  It  must  be  admitted  that  her  tone  lacked 
its  usual  suavity  when  she  said: 

"Have  you  had  lunch,  madam?" 

"I — I  don't  know,"  said  Alice. 

At  this  she  looked  at  her  more  closely.  There  was 
something  extraordinary  about  the  girl;  an  air  of  be- 
wilderment— of  stupefaction. 

"Something  fresh  has  happened  to  her,"  said  Winter- 
green  to  herself.  "What  have  these  young  devils  been 
up  to  now?" 

"Or  these  old  devils,"  she  added,  for  surely  Jack  at 
least  was  innocent  of  any  escapade  that  day.  She  re- 
flected that  those  peering,  lurking  Fortescues — that 
tyrannical  Miss  Pennifeather — might  have  something  to 
do  with  Alice's  strange  state  of  mind. 

"What  have  they  been  saying  to  her?"  she  said  to 
herself. 

Aloud  she  said :  "Then,  madam,  in  case  you  have  n't 
had  it,  you  'd  better  have  some  now." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  she  betook  herself  to  the 
kitchen.  WTien  she  returned  with  a  tray,  Alice  had  sunk 
into  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  was  staring  before  her, 
oblivious  not  only  of  lunch  but  of  her -presence.  There 
was  something  uncanny  in  her  fixed,  unnatural  gaze. 

"Your  lunch,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen,  glad  to  break 
into  this  strange  abstraction. 


258  WINTERGREEN 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said,  then  looked  away  again  at 
the  fireplace  and  became  motionless  once  more. 

Wintergreen  came  close  to  her. 

"Pardon  me,  madam,  but  you  ought  to  have  some- 
thing," she  said. 

As  she  spoke  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder. 

But  at  this  Alice  sprang  up  with  a  strange  cry. 

"Do  not  touch  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  cannot  bear 
you  to  touch  me !" 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  Wintergreen,  piqued. 

She  had  reached  the  door  when  an  exclamation  behind 
her  brought  her  once  more  to  a  standstill. 

"Oh,  don't  go  away  angry,"  Alice  implored.  "I  did  n't 
know  what  I  was  saying.  I  was  tired.  I  beg  your  par- 
don." 

"There  is  no  need  for  that,  madam,"  said  Winter- 
green  coldly. 

The  apology  at  that  moment  seemed  more  offensive 
than  the  offense.  She  left  the  room  and  returned  moodily 
to  the  kitchen. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  she  said  aloud  to  herself  as  she 
entered  it,  "there  is  another  Occasion  looming." 

To  her  annoyance  there  was  a  reply  to  her  soliloquy. 

"What 's  that  ?"  said  a  familiar  voice. 

And  looking  up  she  became  aware  of  Gardshore  lower- 
ing at  her  from  the  hearth-rug.  His  appearance  at  this 
juncture  seemed  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"Mr.  Gardshore,"  she  said,  "if  you  have  any  regard 
for  me,  do  not  speak  to  me  or  look  at  me  again  till  after 
tea-time." 

He  stared  for  a  moment.    Then — 

"I  won't,"  he  said.  "And  what 's  more,  I  '11  make  the 
tea,  and  take  all  the  messages." 


IMMINENCE  OF  ANOTHER  OCCASION    259 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  said  Wintergreen.  I  'm  not  so  col- 
lapsed as  that." 

"No,"  he  said,  "but  I  happen  to  be  in  the  mood  for 
doing  some  wintergreening," 


CHAPTER  XIV 

In  which  Private  Affairs  become  Public  and  Vice 
Versa 

FOUR  days  later  dawned  the  day  of  the  fete.  The 
exigencies  of  the  drama,  alas,  permit  no  adequate 
description  of  it.  For  the  glories  of  the  weather,  of  the 
grounds  of  Pitcaple,  of  the  stalls,  of  the  stall-holders, 
of  the  various  entertainments,  for  the  dresses  which  the 
notabilities  wore,  and  for  the  manner  in  which  they  ac- 
quitted themselves,  and  for  the  raptures  of  the  crowds 
who  came,  the  local  papers  of  that  date  must  be  con- 
sulted. Their  reports  are  full,  and  enthusiastic  as  befits 
their  subject.  But  just  as  in  all  other  histories,  however 
detailed  they  may  be,  there  are  always  items  omitted, 
and  sometimes  those  of  the  first  importance,  so  in  the 
history  of  that  day  some  things  befell  which  have  never 
before  been  recorded. 

Jack  arrived  at  Pitcaple  that  morning  in  a  strange 
mood.  For  three  nights  he  had  hardly  slept.  His  work 
had  inopportunely  been  specially  heavy  during  the  last 
week,  and  what  with  taking  part  along  with  Mr.  Penni- 
feather  and  Mr.  Rutherford  in  the  organization  of 
the  fete,  as  well  as  practising  at  odd  hours  with  Jimmy, 
he  was  almost  at  his  tether's  end.  He  had  hardly  spoken 
to  Alice  for  about  a  week,  and  had  been  so  preoccupied 
that  he  had  not  noticed  that  she  had,  during  the  last  three 
days,  discontinued  even  the  morning  speeches.  O'  nights 

260 


PRIVATE  AFFAIRS  BECOME  PUBLIC     261 

she  had  always  been  asleep  or  apparently  so  when,  dead 
tired,  he  had  managed  to  come  up  to  bed.  In  the  morn- 
ings she  had  always  been  out  of  the  room  before  he 
awoke.  At  times,  but  generally  when  he  was  alone,  he 
had  realized  with  a  pang  the  separation  there  was  now 
between  them.  Now  and  again,  forgetting  what  had 
happened,  he  would  think  how  he  would  tell  Alice  some 
piece  of  news  when  he  got  home.  Then  remembering 
the  new  conditions,  another  wave  of  bitterness  would 
surge  up  within  him,  making  the  breach  between  them 
wider. 

There  was  bitterness  too  of  another  kind  in  the  thought 
of  the  other  inmate  of  the  Bow  House.  Gardshore — the 
man  he  had  received  with  such  keen  interest  and  eager  de- 
sire to  serve — Gardshore  too  had  turned  against  him.  He 
seemed  to  hate  the  very  sight  of  him,  to  shrink  from  the 
touch  of  his  hand,  the  sound  of  his  voice.  It  was  de- 
plorable. He  had  made  him  worse  instead  of  better. 
His  management  of  the  first  case  that  had  been  sent  to 
him  from  the  outer  world  had  been  a  dismal  failure.  His 
pride  and  his  ambition  were  humbled  in  the  dust.  But 
he  could  not  go  on  with  Gardshore.  He  must  be  honest 
about  it,  write  to  the  professor,  and  ask  him  to  remove 
him  to  the  care  of  some  one  else. 

Then  as  regarded  Jimmy,  she  had  become  strange  also. 
What  it  meant  he  could  not  conceive.  He  dared  not 
think.  But  Jimmy  was  undoubtedly  different.  As  he  had 
looked  over  his  list  for  the  day  that  morning,  and  won- 
dered how  he  could  get  every  one  in  and  the  fete  as  well, 
the  thought  of  Jimmy  had  strongly  obtruded  itself. 

A  scene  of  the  night  before  had  been  in  his  mind.  They 
had  been  at  Pitcaple  having  a  last  rehearsal  on  the  stage 
there  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Rutherford.  Then, 


262  WINTERGREEN 

how  it  had  come  about  he  knew  not,  Mr.  Rutherford  had 
departed  and  he  had  found  himself  alone  with  Jimmy, 
strolling  on  the  lawn  in  the  dusk.  It  had  been  then  that 
she  had  seemed  stranger  than  ever  yet. 

"Jack,"  she  had  said  suddenly,  "shall  you  not  be  glad 
when  this  is  over?" 

"Yes,"  he  had  replied.  "It  is  interfering  with  my 
work." 

"Work?"  she  had  laughed  bitterly.  "It  is  interfering 
with  my  life.  I  shall  never  get  over  it.  It  has  been  a 
wretched  business." 

"Jimmy,"  he  had  exclaimed,  shocked  not  so  much  by 
the  words  as  by  the  manner  in  which  they  were  uttered, 
half  defiantly,  half  despairingly.  "Is  something  troubling 
you?  Can  I  help?" 

"No,  no,"  she  had  said  hastily.  "Only  forget — forget 
that  I  spoke  just  now."  And  she  had  made  as  though 
she  would  escape. 

But  on  a  sudden  impulse  he  had  caught  her  hand — 
her  two  hands — and  they  had  stood  looking  at  each  other 
through  the  dusk. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  forget,  Jimmy,"  he  had  said  then. 
"Would  it  not  be  better  just  to  speak  out  as  we  used 
to  do?" 

"No,"  she  had  said.  "No,  it's  impossible.  But 
thank  God  every  day  of  your  life  that  you  are  not  me, 
Jack.  Now  let  me  go." 

And  he  had  let  her  go.  But  the  thought  of  her  had 
remained  with  him,  and  it  troubled  him  vaguely  even  as 
he  sat  there  looking  through  his  list.  This  new  strange 
Jimmy — what  was  it  that  had  changed  her?  All  his 
world,  it  seemed,  was  under  a  miserable  spell,  which 
altered  everything,  blighted  everything. 


PRIVATE  AFFAIRS  BECOME  PUBLIC    263 

Nothing  could  have  been  gayer  or  more  light-hearted 
than  Jimmy,  however,  when  she  had  met  him  that  morn- 
ing on  the  door-step  of  Pitcaple,  where,  attended  by 
several  admiring  youths,  she  was  engaged  in  fixing  up 
notices  for  visitors ;  or  when  he  saw  her  next  some  hours 
later,  the  center  of  a  throng  of  people;  or  later  still 
playing  clock-golf  with  Mr.  Pennifeather.  The  little 
scene  on  the  lawn  the  night  before  might  have  been  a 
dream.  Yet  it  seemed  to  him  as  her  eyes  met  his  that 
he  still  saw  a  shadow  of  it  there.  It  would  be  just  like 
Jimmy,  he  reflected,  to  hide  misery  under  a  laugh.  Her 
merriment  haunted  him  even  more  than  her  sadness  had 
done.  As  soon  as  possible,  therefore,  he  went  back  to 
Pitcaple,  why  he  knew  not,  since  he  could  not  help  her. 
But  some  vague  idea  of  getting  her  to  confide  in  him 
was  in  his  mind  when  suddenly  he  saw  her  coming  to- 
ward him. 

"Jack !"  she  exclaimed.    "You  here  again  ?" 

There  was  a  new  strange  gravity  in  her  face,  a  kind 
of  amazement  also  and  relief. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  wondering  at  her.  "You  see  it 's  get- 
ting on  for  the  concert.  And  I  don't  want  it  to  be  late 
— my  part  of  it  at  least — I  have  to  go  out  again  after- 
wards." 

"I  see,"  she  said  perfunctorily,  having  evidently  not 
heard  a  word  he  had  said.  "Well,  au  revoir." 

Then  she  went  on  towards  the  house. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  lawn,  to  his  intense  astonish- 
ment, he  met  Gardshore,  who  pretended  not  to  see  him. 

"Damn  the  chap!"  said  Jack  to  himself  in  sudden 
violent  irritation.  "What  has  he  come  here  for?" 

Gardshore  was  just  asking  himself  the  same  question. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  more  wretched  at  that 


264  WINTERGREEN 

moment  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  He  was 
furious  with  Wintergreen,  who  had  suggested  his  coming 
and  had  been  the  cause  of  it.  He  had  been  angry  all 
the  way  up  the  road  from  Cauldstanes,  where  motors 
were  always  passing  him  and  enveloping  him  in  dust. 
They  were  all  making  a  game  of  this — these  people 
apparently — making  an  entertainment  of  their  charity  to 
their  disabled  defenders.  They  had  to  have  good  meas- 
ure pressed  down  and  running  over  of  pleasure  in  return 
for  their  benevolence. 

Faugh!  The  whole  thing  was  wrong.  But  for  these 
men  now  lurking  on  the  outskirts  of  everything,  maimed, 
broken,  in  body  and  in  mind,  these  people  now  passing 
him,  secure  in  their  self-complacency,  would  themselves 
have  been  dragged  through  humiliation  and  suffering. 
The  whole  thing  infuriated  him.  He  thought  of  the  last 
crowd  in  which  he  had  taken  his  place — a  khaki-clad, 
gray- faced  crowd  in  the  rain  and  mist  and  mud  of  a  dawn 
in  Belgium.  And  the  fragrant  fields  seemed  hateful  to 
him,  the  calm  sea  beyond,  the  fair  woods  ahead,  the 
sounds  of  gaiety,  the  songs  of  birds,  the  hum  of  flying 
summer  things,  the  distant  braying  of  the  band,  the  voices, 
the  laughter.  It  all  seemed  a  nightmare,  with  the  memory 
in  his  mind  of  that  grim  company  of  death,  to  see  those 
so-called  benefactors  in  the  midst  of  their  activities. 

Slowly  on  foot  he  made  his  way  up  the  avenue  under 
heavy  overhanging  trees  where  the  air  was  faint  with 
the  scent  of  flowers  and  stale  with  bad  tobacco.  Now 
and  again  he  was  jostled  by  other  foot-passengers  all 
bent  for  the  same  destination.  More  than  once  he  paused 
irresolutely,  but  always  he  went  on  again. 

"No,"  he  said  to  himself,  "now  that  I  am  here  I  can- 
not go  without  seeing  her." 


PRIVATE  AFFAIRS  BECOME  PUBLIC     265 

And  then  he  had  seen  her  in  her  straw  hat  and  blue 
linen.  He  had  seen  her  here,  there,  and  everywhere — 
now  at  one  stall,  now  at  another,  always  the  center  of 
some  crowd  or  group  of  people.  She  might  have  been 
a  blue  butterfly  in  a  bed  of  flowers  flitting  from  one  to 
another  in  the  sunshine — a  being  of  a  different  sphere — so 
light,  so  sweet,  so  altogether  adorable. 

On  a  seat  among  the  bushes  half -hidden  he  sat  and 
watched  her,  and  when  she  passed  beyond  the  range  of  his 
vision  he  sat  dreaming  of  her. 

So  the  day  passed.  No  one  came  his  way.  He  sat  un- 
noticed, remote,  aloof,  on  the  outer  edge  of  things. 

Then  suddenly  as  the  dusk  began  to  fall,  without  sound 
of  approaching  footstep,  she  stood  beside  him. 

"Are  you  coming  to  the  concert?"  she  said. 

He  looked  up,  saw  her,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Are — are  you  singing  ?"  he  stammered,  trying  to  speak 
lightly  nevertheless. 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  the  same  tone.  "Now  you 
can't  refuse  to  come,  can  you?  May  I  sell  you  a 
ticket?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  without  thinking  what  he  was  saying, 
for  her  eyes  were  looking  straight  into  his,  driving  him 
demented.  "Yes,  I  '11  come." 

Then  in  his  madness,  as  he  fumbled  for  his  purse,  an- 
other thought  occurred  to  him. 

"Will  you  sing  'Down  in  the  Forest'  if  I  come?"  he 
added  suddenly. 

It  was  the  first  song  she  had  ever  sung  to  him,  and 
he  had  begged  her  on  that  far-off  night  never  to  sing  it 
to  him  again,  never  to  destroy  the  first  exquisite  memory 
of  it.  She  was  silent  now  for  a  moment,  and  the  glow 
faded  from  her  face. 


266  WINTERGREEN 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  at  last,  very  pale.  "Yes,  I  '11 
sing  it." 

A  moment  later  she  had  left  him. 

She  had  broken  the  spell  of  his  dreary  self -banish- 
ment, however.  He  did  not  sit  down  again,  but  .moved 
off  towards  the  terrace,  and  was  on  his  way  there  when 
Jack  saw  him  and  damned  him. 

Nevertheless  Jack  followed  him,  and  though  he  was 
stopped  by  one  and  another  he  at  last  came  up  with  him 
in  the  entrance-hall  of  the  house. 

"Hallo,  Gardshore!"  he  said,  cheerfully  ignoring  the 
scowl  with  which  his  patient  received  him.  "You 
here?" 

"And  why  not?"  said  Gardshore  sharply. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Jack  hastily.  "Are  you 
going  in  to  the  concert?  I  am  just  on  my  way  there." 

"Damn  you,"  said  Gardshore  under  his  breath.  Never- 
theless he  followed  him  into  the  concert-room. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Jack.  "Still  two  places  in  the 
back  row." 

Gardshore  took  his  seat  in  sullen  silence.  It  was  the 
seat  he  would  have  chosen  had  he  been  alone,  but  he 
resented  Jack's  thinking  that  the  back  row  was  the  place 
suitable  for  him.  He  resented  Jack  altogether,  his  good 
looks,  his  cheerful  self-confidence,  his  unconsciously  pat- 
ronizing manner.  Above  all  he  resented  the  way  in 
which,  when  Jimmy  entered  third  on  the  program,  Jack 
leaned  back  with  folded  arms  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
her.  He  seemed  to  Gardshore  to  have  a  possessive  air. 
How  dared  he  look  at  her?  How  dared  he  .sit  there  next 
to  him  looking  at  her? 

Jimmy  too  had  been  ruffled  en  route,  and  had  just 
passed  through  a  tiff  with  Ada  Apsley. 


PRIVATE  AFFAIRS  BECOME  PUBLIC    267 

"Do  you  know  'Down  in  the  Forest',  by  Landon  Ron- 
ald ?"  she  had  said  to  her. 

"Do  I  know  'God  save  the  King'?"  Ada  had  returned. 
"But  you  are  n't  going  to  sing  that  old  thing,  are  you  ?" 

"I  am,"  said  Jimmy. 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  said  Ada.  "Sing  it  as  an  encore  if 
you  like,  but  I  told  hundreds  of  people  to  come  and  hear 
you  sing,  'Madam  Butterfly.'  You  must  sing  it  first." 

"I  won't,"  said  Jimmy.  "I  am  going  to  sing  nothing 
but  the  other." 

"Jimmy !"  implored  Ada.  "For  goodness  sake  don't 
change  now!" 

"I  have  changed,"  had  been  the  reply. 

"Well,  of  all  the  obstinate  devils,"  exclaimed  Ada.  "I 
won't  play  your  accompaniment." 

"You  will,"  said  Jimmy.    "Don't  waste  time." 

And  with  these  words  she  led  the  way  on  to  the  plat- 
form. Ada  followed  frowning,  but  by  the  time  they 
were  in  their  places  Jimmy  had  forgotten  her.  To  her 
there  was  only  one  face  in  the  crowded  hall — in  all  the 
world — at  that  moment. 

"She  is  nervous,"  said  Mr.  Pennifeather  who  was 
seated  in  the  front  row. 

"Not  her,"  said  his  sister.  "What  makes  you  think 
so?" 

"Don't  you  see  how  pale  she  is  and  trembling?"  said 
her  brother. 

"No,"  said  his  sister,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
program.  "James  is  going  to  be  the  next,"  she  said  to 
herself.  Then  turning  in  her  seat  she  looked  deliber- 
ately at  the  crowd  behind  them.  "I  thought  so,"  she  said 
then.  "She  is  singing  to  a  special  audience.  Dr.  Adair 
is  there." 


268  WINTERGREEN 

"And  why  not?"  said  her  brother  sharply,  just  as 
Gardshore  had  answered  Jack,  and  in  this  eddy  of  feelings 
adverse  and  otherwise  the  introduction  of  the  song  began. 

And  whatever  Ada  felt  about  it,  never  had  she  played 
more  beautifully.  The  rustle  of  the  forest  leaves,  the 
sigh  of  the  summer  wind  was  in  her  music  and  prepar- 
ing the  way  for  Jimmy's  clear  boy-like  voice;  the  voice 
of  a  sprite  it  seemed — hardly  that  of  a  woman. 

Down  in  the  forest  something  stirred, 
It  was  only  the  voice  of  a  bird  .  .  . 

The  whole  audience  held  their  breath  to  listen. 
But  suddenly  the  accompaniment  plunged  into   deep 
chords  and  the  voice  too  became  suddenly  human. 

Here  in  the  morning  of  life  I  stand 

And  I  long  for  a  touch  of  your  hand. 

Here  I  stand  ...  I  am  here  at  your  door  .  .  . 

We  will  wait  .  .  .  oh,  my  love  .  .  .  we  will  wait  no  more.  .  .  . 

Again  the  accompaniment  sank  into  the  quiet  rustling 
of  the  leaves,  the  soft  sighing  of  the  wind,  and  the  first 
phrase  was  repeated  in  the  spirit-like  voice  of  the  begin- 
ning; but  this  time  with  the  memory  behind  it  of  what 
had  intervened. 

"Jimmy,"  exclaimed  Ada  as  they  went  out  into  the 
green-room  together,  "I  had  no  idea  you  could  sing  like 
that." 

But  Jimmy  did  not  answer.  She  stood  listening  like 
one  in  a  dream  to  the  thunderous  applause  which  had 
succeeded  the  silence  in  the  concert-room. 

"You  '11  have  to  go  back,"  said  Ada  after  a  moment, 
as  shouts  of  "Encore"  began  to  mingle  with  the  stamp- 
ing and  clapping. 

"Jimmy,"  said  Jack,  entering,  "that  was  simply  mag- 
nificent. You  '11  have  to  go  back." 


PRIVATE  AFFAIRS  BECOME  PUBLIC     269 

"No,"  she  laughed.  "I  'm  never  going  back  any  more." 
And  turning  lightly  on  her  heels  she  ran  out  into  the 
corridor. 

Jack  followed  her. 

"You  don't  mean  that,  do  you  ?"  he  said.  "You  remem- 
ber there  's  the  minuet  ?" 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  Jimmy.  "So  there  is.  If  I 
had  n't  quite  forgotten  it.  And  it  will  serve  to  stop  this 
recall.  Tell  'em  I  'm  sorry  but  I  've  got  to  dress." 

She  was  off  before  he  had  time  for  remonstrance.  He 
went  across  the  green-room  again  and  so  on  to  the  stage. 
The  applause  died  down  into  the  silence  of  attention. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "Miss  Carmyle  has 
asked  me  to  thank  you  for  your  kind  reception,  and  to 
tell  that  she  is  sorry  she  cannot  sing  again  now  as  she  has 
to  dress  for  the  minuet." 

The  applause  broke  forth  again  as  he  left  the  plat- 
form. 

"Really,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather  under  cover  of  the 
noise  to  her  left-hand  neighbor,  Mrs.  Rutherford.  "She 
seems  to  wish  to  show  her  domination  over  him  at  every 
turn.  Why  could  n't  she  have  sent  some  one  else  as  her 
messenger?  Ada  Apsley,  for  instance?" 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "but 
do  be  quiet.  Mrs.  Adair  is  on  my  other  side,  and  I 
thought  she  was  going  to  faint  during  that  song  poor 
creature." 

"Poor  thing,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather.  "But  don't 
ask  me  to  pity  her  just  now.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
many  things  she  has  forgotten  during  the  last  few  days ; 
important,  vital  things.  Heaven  preserve  me  from  hav- 
ing a  secretary  again  like  her !" 

At  that  moment  Alice,  pale  as  death,  rose  from  her 


270  WINTERGREEN 

place,  and,  passing  along  in  front  of  them,  made  her  way 
to  the  nearest  door. 

The  two  women  looked  at  her  and  then  at  each  other. 

"She  could  n't  possibly  have  heard,"  said  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford. "Not  possibly." 

All  the  same  they  felt  uneasy  but  quite  unnecessarily. 
Alice  had  heard  nothing  since  Jimmy's  song  but  the  words 
"we  will  wait  no  more".  She  had  seen  nothing  but  the 
vision  of  Jimmy's  rapt  face  when  she  sang  them.  These 
things  and  no  whispers  of  Miss  Pennifeather  or  "Mrs. 
Rutherford  drove  her  from  the  concert-room  and  forth 
into  the  moonlit  night. 

But  the  uncomfortable  thought  of  her  remained  behind 
her.  The  desire  for  self-justification  arose  in  the  breasts 
of  the  two  critics.  At  the  first  opportunity  they  went 
out  on  to  the  terrace  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  little 
tables.  Here,  over  cups  of  coffee,  they  discussed  Alice 
fully,  and  Miss  Pennifeather  related  in  detail  the  history 
of  her  shortcomings  as  a  secretary. 

As  no  one  was  on  the  terrace  but  themselves,  they  did 
not  observe  the  caution  usually  deemed  necessary  in 
speaking  of  others  by  name.  Both  voices,  moreover,  had 
a  carrying  quality.  In  the  men's  dressing-room,  whose 
open  window  was  just  above  them,  Jack  struggling  into 
white  silk  stockings  and  satin  breeches,  distinctly  heard 
them.  At  first  the  talk  amused  him  as  it  came  to  him 
in  snatches.  He  wondered  idly  who  the  unfortunate  was 
who  was  being  torn  piecemeal,  and  anathematized  by 
Miss  Pennifeather  as  "the  most  egregious  little  fool,  my 
dear,  especially  during  the  last  few  days." 

At  the  same  time  realizing  that  it  was  hardly  fair  to 
listen  unsuspected  to  what  was  obviously  a  private  con- 


PRIVATE  AFFAIRS  BECOME  PUBLIC    271 

versation,  he  went  forward  to  close  the  window  and  thus 
make  the  speakers  aware  of  his  presence. 

His  hands  were  already  on  the  window  when  he  heard 
his  own  name,  and  suddenly  realized  that  they  were  talk- 
ing of  Jimmy's  song. 

"Well,  all  I  can  say,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "is  that 
I  thought  it  rather  painful.  She  was  singing  to  one 
man.  That  was  very  evident.  And  I  could  see  the 
man's  poor  wife  thought  the  same." 

"Yes,  poor  Mrs.  Adair,"  said  Miss  Pennifeather.  "But 
really  one  cannot  wonder  at 'him.  As 'I  tell  you,  the  last 
three  days " 

Here  the  speakers  rose  from  their  seats  and  began  mov- 
ing along  the  terrace,  lowering  their  voices  as  they  did 
so  to  inaudibility. 

This  may  have  been  because  Jack  had  slammed  the 
window  down  in  a  fury  of  futile  rage.  He  had  just  sense 
enough  left  to  prevent  him  shouting  down  to  the  two 
speakers,  from  leaning  over  the  window  to  demand  how 
they  dared  to  talk  like  this  of  his  Alice.  All  at  once  he 
realized  that  nothing  else  mattered.  What  they  said  about 
himtwas  nothing  to  him  except  in  so  far  as  it  affected  her. 
How  dared  they — how  dared  they?  Had  it  actually 
come  to  this,  that  because  of  him  Alice  was  being  publicly 
talked  about,  watched,  discussed,  criticized?  They  had 
been  talking  of  her  all  the  time  then?  They  had  gone 
away  pitying  her?  He  was  furiously  angry.  He  could 
have  torn  off  his  satin  and  silver  again.  He  was  boiling 
with  wrath  at  those  venomous  women — at  Jimmy  too  for 
having  come  to  Cauldstanes,  but  most  of  all  at  himself. 
What  was  he  doing  with  these  ridiculous  clothes  on,  mak- 
ing a  buffoon  of  himself  while  Alice  was  miserable?  He 


272  WINTERGREEN 

saw  her  for  the  first  time  as  she  had  seen  herself  weeks 
before  on  that  first  night  before  her  mirror — the  object 
of  pity,  the  butt  of  comment,  the  center  of  a  peering, 
jeering  crowd,  while  he,  her  protector,  her  lover,  her 
husband  was  dancing  minuets  with  another  woman,  mak- 
ing an  ass  of  himself — a  hateful  ass! 

He  cursed  as  he  jammed  his  peruke  on  his  head  and 
tore  the  lace  at  one  of  the  cuffs  of  his  gorgeous  coat. 

"Good  gracious,  doctor!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Rutherford, 
entering  at  that  moment  in  his  character  of  stage-man- 
ager, "do  be  careful  with  that  point  de  Venise.  What 's 
the  matter?"  he  added,  as  Jack  turned  towards  him, 
scowling. 

"Everything,"  said  Jack  and  strode  furiously  to  the 
green-room. 

The  Marquise,  already  in  her  white  satin,  was  wait- 
ing alone  there  behind  the  scenes.  Every  one  else  had 
gone  back  to  the  audience  to  hear  the  tenor  of  the  even- 
ing sing. 

"Jimmy,"  he  said,  "I  'm  feeling  rotten  to-night.  I 
don't  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  remember  the  steps.  I 
wish  to  goodness  I  hadn't  said  I  would  dance  it." 

"So  do  I,  Jack,"  said  Jimmy  unexpectedly.  "I  'm 
quite  off  it  too  to-night.  I  don't  even  remember  the 
first  thing  I  have  to  do,  and  what 's  more,  I  don't  care 
either." 

"Jimmy !"  he  said,  amazed — even  in  his  abstraction — at 
the  light  in  her  eyes,  the  flush  in  her  cheeks,  the  heave 
of  her  bosom  under  the  white  satin. 

"Do  you  think  we  might  cut  it  altogether?"  she  said, 
and  laughed. 

But  at  that  moment  a  thunder  of  applause  from  the 


PRIVATE  AFFAIRS  BECOME  PUBLIC    273 

concert-room  interrupted  them,  and  Ada  Apsley  ap- 
peared. 

"O  you  darlings !"  she  exclaimed  whenever  she  saw 
them.  "You  do  look  lovely!  Come  on!  Mr.  Thorne 
is  going  to  sing  your  minuet  for  an  encore!  He  has  a 
perfect  voice  and  it  ought  to  be  sung  by  a  man." 

"All  right,"  said  Jimmy,  leading  the  way.  "Dance 
anything  you  like,  Jack.  After  all,  who  cares  ?" 

"Yes,  who  cares?"  said  Jack,  and  then,  as  Ada  began 
to  play,  they  stepped  out  together  hand  in  hand  on  the 
platform. 

Both  afterwards  wondered  what  that  minuet  was  really 
like.  Many  of  the  steps  they  did  were  weird  and  wonder- 
ful, they  believed,  and  never  before  witnessed  in  that 
courtly  dance.  But  both  being  in  an  exalted  state  was 
probably  a  help.  They  danced  instinctively  like  sleep- 
walkers, and  the  performance  was  a  huge  success.  At 
the  end  they  were  recalled  to  the  platform  again  and 
again,  but  Jimmy  looked  in  vain  for  Gardshore,  Jack 
looked  in  vain  for  Alice. 

"Have  you  seen  my  wife  anywhere?"  he  said  to  the 
stage-manager  as  they  left  the  green-room  together. 

But  no  one  had  seen  his  wife  anywhere  since  she  had 
disappeared  after  Jimmy's  song.  She  was  nowhere  to 
be  found  either  in  the  house  or  on  the  terrace. 

"No,  I  have  not  seen  her!"  said  Miss  Pennifeather 
testily  when  Ada  met  that  lady  in  the  corridor.  "I  am 
looking  for  her  now.  She  was  to  have  met  me  here  for 
a  committee  meeting."  And  she  passed  on  muttering, 
for  she  was  very  wroth. 


CHAPTER  XV 

In   which    Wintergreen    once   more   meets  with   an 
Occasion 

THE  day  of  the  fete  had  made  very  little  difference 
at  the  Bow  House.  If  anything  it  had  made  it 
quieter.  There  had  been  fewer  calls  at  the  door,  fewer 
telephones,  longer  periods  of  solitude  and  silence.  Alice 
had  been  away  since  morning,  Jack  since  lunch-time,  and 
after  Gardshore  left  in  the  afternoon  Wintergreen  was 
quite  deserted.  Her  loneliness  was  emphasized  and  made 
more  grateful  to  her  by  the  crowds  passing  along  the 
street  on  their  way  to  the  center  of  interest.  Echoes 
of  laughter,  snatches  of  song,  groanings  of  concertinas 
came  to  her  where  she  sat  secluded.  She  wondered  some- 
times, when  she  had  time,  what  was  happening  to  every- 
body— to  Jack — to  Jimmy — to  Gardshore — to  Alice. 

Strangely  enough  it  was  Alice  who  occupied  her  most. 
As  evening  fell  her  mind  became  filled  with  the  thought 
of  her  little  mistress,  and  of  the  memory  of  her  as  she 
had  started  for  the  fete,  wan  and  sad  in  all  her  bravery. 
How  had  she  fared  all  day,  she  wondered.  What  had 
happened  to  her  amid  all  the  sunshine  and  noise  and 
crowds  of  people  with  that  sad,  strange,  bewildered  look 
in  her  face  ?  She  had  looked  like  that — distressed,  haunted 
— for  more  than  three  days  now.  Wintergreen  was  con- 
vinced that  no  light  thing  was  troubling  her.  She  was 
sure  of  that.  As  she  sat  by  the  fire  sewing,  she  worried 

274 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    275 

about  the  unhappy  Alice,  till  in  despair  she  laid  down 
her  work. 

She  began  then  to  wander  about  the  house.  It  seemed 
to  her  like  a  stage  from  which  the  actors  had  just 
departed.  Gardshore's  room,  which  was  as  usual  very 
untidy,  gave  her  occupation  for  a  time.  But  afterward 
she  was  standing  there  gazing  drearily  at  the  sea  beyond 
the  red  roofs  aglow  in  the  sunset  when  suddenly  she  heard 
the  front  door  open  with  a  latch-key.  A  moment  after 
some  one  came  stealing  into  the  house. 

It  was  Alice  like  a  wraith  in  her  lavender  finery.  Win- 
tergreen  could  see  her  plainly  as  she  came  up  the  stairs 
below,  panting  a  little  as  though  she  had  been  running 
or  walking  at  full  speed.  Her  wild  eyes  and  her  pallor 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  smart  hat  and  frock.  In 
spite  of  them  she  looked  as  she  had  looked  on  the  day  of 
the  sea-pinks. 

"Something  more  has  happened,"  said  Wintergreen  to 
herself.  "Something  dreadful  has  happened  to  her." 

It  was  evident,  however,  that,  as  on  that  former  day, 
Alice  wanted  no  sympathy.  She  went  straight  to  her 
room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her  softly,  furtively, 
as  though  fearful  of  being  overheard. 

"She  does  not  want  me,"  thought  Wintergreen. 

But  the  thought  was  troubling,  taken  together  with 
the  fact  that  her  mistress  had  returned  long  before  she 
had  intended  to  do  so.  She  had  said  that  she  probably 
would  not  be  home  till  midnight.  Now  it  was  barely  nine 
o'clock.  That  in  itself  was  alarming.  Was  she  ill?  But 
no;  in  that  case  she  would  have  called  her,  would  have 
rung  her  bell,  at  least,  and  told  her  that  she  was  in  the 
house.  Besides,  it  was  borne  in  upon  Wintergreen  that 
Alice's  affliction  was  not  of  the  body  but  of  the  spirit. 


276  WINTERGREEN 

More  and  more  the  conviction  grew  upon  her  that  some- 
thing vital  was  happening  there  in  the  closed  room,  some- 
thing which  might  be  of  infinite  importance;  and  with 
this  at  first  came  a  nightmare  consciousness  of  her  own 
helplessness  in  the  matter.  Then,  as  she  looked  down 
from  her  top  landing,  she  saw  a  letter  lying  on  the  hall- 
table  which  had  come  by  the  afternoon  post.  It  was 
addressed  to  Alice,  but  she  had  passed  it  by. 

"Fortunately,"  said  Wintergreen  as  she  made  haste  to 
go  down  to  the  hall  to  get  it. 

Placing  it  on  a  salver,  she  then  made  for  Alice's  door 
and  knocked.  There  was  no  answer  in  words,  but  an  in- 
stant later  Alice  stood  before  her,  ghastly,  scared,  half- 
deriant. 

"A  letter  for  you,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen.  "And 
may  I  bring  you  a  cup  of  tea  or  some  supper?  You  are 
very  tired — if  you  would  allow  me " 

"No,"  said  Alice  quickly.  "No,  thank  you.  I — I 
have  to  go  back  shortly.  I  only  came — came  here  for 
something.  I  cannot  stay." 

"Very  well,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen. 

She  withdrew  at  once,  and  Alice,  closing  and  locking 
the  door,  went  back  to  the  occupation  she  had  left. 

She  was  writing  a  letter. 


"My  Darling,"  it  began,  "I  must  call  you  that  once  more.  It 
is  for  the  last  time,  and  you  shall  never  hear  me  say  it  again. 
I  love  you  too  much  to  stay  on  at  the  Bow  House  in  the  way  of 
your  happiness  with  one  who  is  far  more  suited  to  you  than  I  am. 
Before — when  I  did  not  know  she  loved  you — I  doubted,  but 
to-night — now — I  know  she  loves  you,  Jack.  I  could  see  it  in 
her  face — hear  it  in  her  voice.  She  will  make  you  very  happy, 
Jack,  as  I  never  could.  And  I  too  will  be  happy.  Never  fear 
for  that.  I  am  going  to  live  with  a  friend  of  mine,  who  has 
often  wanted  me  to  come,  a  nurse  in  a  hospital,  where  I  can 
learn  to  work  too,  and  be  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  It  is  all 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    277 

arranging  itself.  By  the  time  you  get  this  I  shall  be  far  away 
from  the  Bow  House.  And  I  ask  you,  Jack,  not  to  seek  for  me. 
We  shall  be  better  apart — indeed,  indeed  we  shall.  After  all,  why 
should  not  men  and  women  be  honest  with  each  other  as  men 
are  with  men?  Why  should  any  law-courts  be  necessary  to  free 
those  from  each  other  who  have  been  comrades  in  any  sense? 
Surely  you  and  I  at  least,  who  have  known  each  other  as  long 
as  we  can  remember,  should  not  require  this.  For  me  it  is 
enough  to  know  that  you  would  be  happier  without  me — to  make 
me  long  to  go. 

"Good-by  then,  dear,  for  always. 

"ALICE" 

She  finished  this  and  then  sat  long  in  deep  thought, 
her  chin  on  her  hand,  looking  past  the  mirror  at  the  win- 
dow. Then,  rising,  she  took  off  her  lavender  dress  and 
hat  and  put  them  carefully  away  in  the  wardrobe.  At  the 
same  time  she  took  from  it  the  old  black  dress  which  she 
had  worn  on  the  day  of  her  former  flight,  and  was  fixing 
on  the  old  hat  when  she  became  aware  of  the  letter  which 
Wintergreen  had  given  her  lying  on  the  table  in  front 
of  her. 

But  at  the  thought  of  Wintergreen  she  stood  stock- 
still,  and  all  the  old  evil  thoughts  came  surging  back 
upon  her.  The  woman  was  evidently  watching  her.  She 
had  seen  her  come  in.  She  was  inquisitive  as  to  what  she 
was  doing  now.  She  would  watch  again  when  she  took 
her  departure,  see  how  she  was  dressed,  see  where  she 
went.  It  would  be  necessary  to  change  back  into  the 
dainty  lavender  again  if  the  fiction  that  she  was  going  back 
to  Pitcaple  that  night  were  to  be  kept  up.  Well,  so  be 
it  then !  She  changed  back  into  the  lavender,  but  as  she 
stood  again  at  her  dressing-table  the  letter  lying  on  it 
again  challenged  her  curiosity,  this  time  enough  to  make 
her  take  it  up  and  look  at  it. 

Then  for  the  first  time  she  saw  that  it  was  addressed 
in  the  same  strange  printing* with  which  the  letter  in  red 


278  WINTERGREEN 

ink  had  been  directed.     Inside  was  a  printed  letter  too, 
but  this  time  in  black  instead  of  red. 

"I,  the  writer,"  it  ran,  "of  the  former  letter  against 
the  character  of  Wintergreen  at  the  Bow  House  hereby 
retract  it,  and  wish  to  say  that  there  was  not  one  word 
of  truth  in  it.  Wintergreen  is  a  saint.  You  may  trust 
her  as  you  trust  God. — From  one  who  knows — and  who 
may  be  at  the  point  of  death.  These  are  true  words." 

Before  she  had  gone  half  a  dozen  steps  Wintergreen 
had  heard  the  door  being  closed  behind  her  and  locked 
on  the  inside.  This  had  angered  her.  So  this  girl  whom 
she  had  served  from  the  first  evening  of  her  coming  until 
now,  early  or  late,  with  all  her  might,  was  going  to  treat 
her  like  a  common  outsider?  Very  well.  Then  she 
might  manage  her  affairs  alone,  as  best  she  could.  She 
— Wintergreen — would  concern  herself  no  more  with 
them. 

She  went  down  to  the  kitchen  again,  and  to  show  her- 
self that  she  did  not  care  a  button  what  happened  up- 
stairs, she  went  on  with  her  sewing,  stolidly,  for  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  suddenly  she  gave  it  up.  A 
terror  had  come  to  her  of  what  might  be  going  on  up- 
stairs in  that  closed  room.  Surely,  surely  all  was  not 
right.  The  memory  of  the  pale,  wild-eyed  girl  who  was 
there  now  all  alone  with  her  trouble,  whatever  it  was, 
would  not  let  her  rest.  Yet  to  go  again  to  her  would  be 
useless  if  she  were  in  the  same  mood.  And  she  knew  she 
had  only  to  ring  to  bring  her  at  once  to  her  side.  The 
silence  argued  that  she  did  not  want  her.  Or  was  there 
perhaps  something  more  behind  it?  It  hung  like  a  soft, 
thick,  heavy  curtain  between  her  and  the  happenings  up- 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    279 

stairs.  She  began  to  long  for  something  to  break  it — 
somehow,  anyhow.  Yet  everything  in  the  house — even 
the  door-bell — even  the  persistent  telephone — seemed  to 
have  joined  in  the  conspiracy  of  silence. 

Uncertain  what  to  do,  yet  convinced  that  she  ought 
to  be  doing  something,  she  was  standing  debating  with 
herself  when  she  heard  the  locked  door  opening  upstairs, 
then  light,  hurrying  footsteps  coming  down  the  stair- 
case. A  moment  later  the  dining-room  bell  rang.  Hasten- 
ing to  answer  it,  she  found  her  little  mistress.  She  was 
in  the  old  black  dress  which  she  had  worn  on  that  former 
day,  and  looked,  as  she  had  looked  then,  a  hunted  crea- 
ture. Yet  that  strange  dignity  was  about  her  too  with 
which  she  had  returned  then. 

"Wintergreen,"  she  began  almost  in  a  whisper,  coming 
forward  as  she  spoke  and  leaning  her  hands  on  the  table, 
"some  weeks  ago  I  had  a  letter — an  anonymous  letter — 
which  made  me  very  unhappy.  It  said  that  you,  who  had 
promised  to  be  good  to  me,  were  all  that  was  bad  and  un- 
trustworthy. To-day  1  have  had  another  letter  from  the 
same  person  which  says  you  are  a  saint  and  that  I  may 
trust  you  as  I  trust  God.  I  don't  know,"  she  went  on, 
drawing  her  hand  wearily  across  her  eyes,  "I  don't  know 
which  is  right,  but  I  think  at  least  that  you  can  be  relied 
on  to  do  what  you  undertake  to  do,  good  or  bad.  Is  not 
this  true?" 

Wintergreen  towed  without  speaking. 

"And  I  think,"  Alice  went  on,  "that  the  worst  friend 
that  ever  was  would  not  refuse  to  help  me  to-night.  For 
I  am  going  away,  Wintergreen.  I — I  shall  not  be  back. 
And  it  seems  like  death.  People,  whatever  they  may  be, 
are  kind  to  those  who  are  on  the  edge  of  death.  They 
do  not  betray  them,  whomever  else  they  may  betray." 


280  WINTERGREEN 

"Madam,"  said  Wintergreen  quietly,  "if  I  have  ever 
served  you  faithfully  I  promise  to  do  so  now,  to  keep 
anything  you  tell  me  as  sacred  as  though  I  were  a  priest 
and  had  heard  it  in  confessional." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Alice,  taking  a  letter  from  her 
pocket.  "It 's  this — this  letter.  I  want  you  to  give  it  to  the 
doctor  when  he  comes  back.  If  it  were  not  given  to  him 
he  might  overlook  it.  He  is  so  tired  just  now  and  over- 
worked. Will  you  see  that  he  gets  it  at  once?  I  want 
him  to  know  first." 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen. 

"And,"  Alice  went  on,  "I — I  want  you  to  stay  on  here 
as  long  as  you  can — not  to  leave  because  I  have  left.  He 
will  need  you  just  as  much — when  I  go — much  more  in- 
deed— for  there  may  be  trouble — you  understand?" 

"I  understand,"  said  Wintergreen. 

"That 's  all,"  said  Alice,  looking  round  her  vaguely. 
"I  don't  think  there  's  any  more  to  say." 

"Except  this,"  said  Wintergreen,  "that  I  would  ask 
you  to  consider  everything  very  carefully,  madam,  be- 
fore you  take  this  step." 

"No,"  said  Alice  hoarsely.  "I  have  done  with  think- 
ing. The  matter  has  been  taken  out  of  my  hands." 

"Is  that  possible?"  said  Wintergreen.  "Have  we  not 
always  a  hand  in  our  own  destinies?" 

"No,  not  always,"  said  Alice.    "I  am  doomed." 

"Oh,  no  one  is  doomed — like  that,"  said  Wintergreen, 
a  trifle  testily.  Anxiety  was  making  her  temper  rise. 
"Neither,  if  one  loves  one's  husband,  does  one  go  off  like 
that.  It  will  be  a  sad  business  for  the  doctor." 

"But  not  so  bad  as  if  I  stayed,"  she  replied  with  sud- 
den passion.  "You  don't  know — you  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about,  woman.  And  to  me  it  would  be 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    281 

a  worse  doom  than  even  the  doom  of  banishment  to  know 
that  he  was  tied  to  me  against  his  will — that  I  had  a  hold 
over  him,  as  they  call  it.  Do  you  know  why  I  am  going 
now — this  very  night  ?  It  is  because  I  have  come  to  know 
that  there  is  to  be  a  child  between  us." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then — "Now  I 
understand,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen. 

"You  understand?"  exclaimed  Alice. 

She  had  expected  outcries,  expostulations. 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen,  "and  I  respect  your 
resolution.  Bu,t  now,  since  you  have  trusted  me  so  far, 
will  you  not  trust  me  further  and  tell  me  what  your  plans 
are?" 

"I  am  going  to-night,"  said  Alice. 

Then  she  stopped  short. 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen.  "But  how  do  you 
mean  to  go?  The  last  train  has  passed  Cauldstanes. 
There  is  no  train  now  except  the  midnight  one  from 
Brakely.  Have  you  arranged  with  any  one  to  take  you 
and  your  luggage  over?" 

There  was  something  fearsome  in  her  calm  acceptance 
of  the  situation.  Alice,  her  wild  eyes  fixed  upon  her, 
felt  small  and  feeble  in  her  grip. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said  hastily.  "That  is — they  are  to 
meet  me." 

"But  your  luggage,  madam?" 

"I  am  taking  only  a  bag." 

"Very  good,  madam,"  said  Wintergreen.  "Then  I 
will  go  with  you  to  the  meeting-place." 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  the  distracted  girl.  "No,  no — 
I  must  go  alone." 

"Very  well,  since  you  prefer  it,  madam,"  said  Winter- 
green.  "But  there  is  one  thing  I  must  insist  upon.  There 


282  WINTERGREEN 

is,  no  need  for  you  to  go  into  your  new  life  exhausted, 
•worn  out  as  you  are  now.  You  must  have  a  good  square 
meal  first.  I  insist  upon  that  madam." 

"You  insist?"  exclaimed  Alice  indignantly,  drawing 
herself  up  to  her  full  height,  while  a  bright  flush  glowed 
in  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,"  said  Wintergreen,  "I  insist.  There  are  always 
two  sides  to  a  fair  bargain.  You  have  asked  me  to  stay 
on  here  when  you  have  gone,  for  months — for  years 
perhaps.  I  ask  you  to  stay  one  hour.  If  you  will  not 
agree,  then  neither  will  I.  After  all,  why  should  I  stay 
to  share  the  discredit  the  Bow  House  will  suffer  when 
you  are  gone?" 

"Ah,  you  are  a  cruel  woman,"  said  Alice  bitterly.  "You 
take  advantage  of  me  already.  But  to  keep  you  for  him 
I  will  stay — and  eat  and  drink — but  no  longer  than  one 
hour,  remember." 

"It  is  now  nine,"  said  Wintergreen.  "By  ten  you 
shall  be  free  to  go." 

Then  without  another  word  she  left  the  room. 

"She  has  no  one  waiting  for  her,"  she  said  to  herself 
as  she  reentered  the  kitchen.  "Or  they  are  wondrous 
kind.  Hours  make  no  difference  to  them." 

Meantime  in  the  dining-room  where  supper  was  al- 
ready set  Alice  paced  up  and  down  at  first  like  a  caged 
animal.  But  for  Jack,  at  that  moment,  she  would  have 
made  her  escape.  But  by  her  own  act  she  had  bound 
herself  to  this  place,  to  this  woman  who  was  to  remain 
when  she  was  gone  to  hold  Jack's  world  together  when 
she  had  abandoned  it.  And  surely  this  one  hour,  when 
she  came  to  think  of  it,  was  not  an  exorbitant  price  to 
pay  for  what  this  woman  would  be  able  to  do  for  Jack, 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    283 

with  her  capable  hands  and  steady  head,  at  what  must 
inevitably  be  a  crisis  in  his  life.  And  there  was  an 
hour  to  spare — two  hours — more  probably.  Jack  would 
not  be  back  from  the  fete  till  midnight.  The  concert  had 
not  been  half  over  when  she  had  left,  and  the  minuet  had 
been  still  to  come  in  the  second  part. 

But  at  the  thought  of  the  concert  she  sat  down  and 
covered  her  face.  Again  the  words  of  Jimmy's  song  rang 
in  her  ears.  Again  she  saw  Jimmy's  face  as  she  sang 
them  with  her  whole  heart  and  soul.  And  presently 
scalding  tears  began  to  drop  through  her  fingers,  as 
resolve  gave  place  to  grief,  and  passionate  determina- 
tion to  agonized  regret. 

Wintergreen  found  Alexander  in  the  backyard,  work- 
ing in  his  shirt-sleeves  at  something  underneath  the 
motor. 

"Has  the  doctor  rung  up?"  he  said  as  soon  as  he  saw 
her. 

"No,"  said  Wintergreen,  "but  there  is  a  letter  for  him 
— a  very  urgent  letter — I  want  you  to  take  it  at  once." 

"Will  it  be  a  long  job,  think  ye?"  said  Alexander.  "Or 
will  it  be  jist  to  come  back?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  said  Wintergreen.  "All  I  know  is 
that  he  must  get  it  at  once.  And  I  want  to  send  a  note 
with  it.  You  can  come  for  it  in  five  minutes." 

"Very  good,"  said  Alexander.  "But  eh!  I  hope  it's 
jist  to  come  back.  I  'm  fair  done  the  night." 

There  was  no  answer.    Wintergreen  had  disappeared. 

When  she  reentered  the  kitchen  Gardshore  was  stand- 
ing there. 

"Well?"  she  said  as  cheerfully  as  she  could. 


284  WINTERGREEN 

"Well,  I  have  been  to  the  fete,"  he  said.  "I  have  heard 
her  sing  to  him,  and  now  she  is  going  to  dance  with  him. 
But  I  came  away.  I  have  had  enough." 

The  words  were  spoken  with  indescribable  bitterness. 
And  as  she  stood  looking  at  him  in  silence :  "It 's  no 
good,  Wintergreen,"  he  added.  "Your  cure  is  an  ab- 
solute failure  too.  Every  time  I  see  her  it  only  makes 
things  worse.  I  am  doing  no  good  either  by  hanging  on 
here.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  any  good.  I  made  up 
my  mind  on  my  way  back.  I  'm  going  over  the  top  to- 
night. And  I  came  here  to  ask  you — once  more — to  get 
that  coffee  ready  for  me.  It 's  for  a  purpose.  You 
understand.  You  remember.  You  promised." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen  at  once. 

He  looked  at  her  suspiciously. 

"Now  no  nonsense  this  time,"  he  said.  "It 's  humilia- 
tion enough  to  lead  up  to  a  climax  twice;  but  a  second 
fiasco  would  land  me  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  This  is  to 
be  the  last  night  of  my  life.  I  mean  it." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  she  said  again.  "I  am  rather  busy 
just  at  present,  but  if  you  will  go  upstairs  I  will  attend  to 
you  as  soon  as  possible." 

"You  take  it  coolly  indeed!"  he  exclaimed,  incensed. 
"You  are  busy  at  this  moment,  you  say.  What  are  you 
busy  at?  Mending  holes  in  table-cloths  I  suppose.  Much 
more  important,  of  course,  than  a  man  who  is  about  to 
commit  suicide." 

"The  sooner  you  go  the  sooner  I  shall  be  ready,"  she 
said. 

"You  are  the  most  callous  woman  I  have  ever  seen," 
he  stormed.  "But  no  matter,"  he  added  more  calmly, 
"so  long  as  you  make  that  coffee  soon." 

He  flung  out  of  the  kitchen  then  and  she  heard  him 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    285 

going  upstairs,  while  she  stood  debating  with  herself 
again  with  one  hand  on  the  table.  Then  going  to  the 
dresser  she  took  writing  materials  from  a  drawer,  and 
sitting  down  at  the  table  scribbled  not  one  but  two  notes. 

"Dear  Dr.  Adair,"  the  first  ran.  "I  have  orders  to  give  you  the 
enclosed  whenever  you  come  in,  but  think  that  perhaps  you  may 
want  to  have  it  sooner.  Yours  respectfully, 

"WlNTERGREEN." 

The  other  ran  thus: 

"Dear  Miss  Carmyle :  I  must  speak  to  you  for  a  moment  as 
soon  as  possible  on  a  matter  of  the  utmost  urgency  concerning 
Mr.  Gardshore.  Come  immediately  or  never  again  to  the  Bow 
House.  Yours  in  great  haste, 

"WlNTERGREEN." 

Hardly  had  she  signed  her  name  for  the  second  time 
when  Alexander  looked  in. 

"Here  you  are,"  she  said,  rising  and  giving  him  the 
notes. 

"Miss  Carmyle,"  he  said  doubtfully,  when  he  saw  the 
address. 

"Yes,  and  drive  hard,"  she  said.  "They  may  both 
mean  life  or  death." 

After  Alexander  had  gone  she  turned  her  attention 
to  the  supper.  Alice  in  the  dining-room  heard  her  pok- 
ing trie  fire  and  moving  dishes.  The  homely  sounds 
brought  her  to  herself  and  to  what  lay  immediately  before 
her.  She  was  glad  now  that  she  had  been  forced  to  stay 
for  this  farewell  meal.  She  would  go  out  afterwards  with 
no  suspicion  on  the  part  of  Wintergreen  that  her  destina- 
tion was  not  Brakely,  but  a  deep  pool  beyond  the  rock 
of  the  sea-pinks. 

She  had  planned  it  all  on  the  day  when  she  had  lain 
there.  She  had  decided  what  she  would  do  if  the  worst 


286  WINTERGREEN 

came  to  the  worst.  There  were  plenty  of  loose  stones. 
She  would  fill  her  pockets  with  them  and  then  plunge 
down  amid  the  brown  trails  of  seaweed  and  be  for  ever 
hidden. 

Meantime  they  would  all  think — Jack  and  the  rest — 
that  in  some  other  place  she  was  living  another  life. 
After  a  time  Jack  would  be  able  to  divorce  her  for  de- 
sertion. Every  one  would  take  his  part.  All  but  herself 
would  live  happy  ever  after. 

It  was  a  dreary  dream,  but  there  was  enchantment  in 
it  too,  as  she  sat  there  exhausted  with  weeping  in  the 
darkening  dining-room.  She  imagined  herself  going 
through  the  soft  gray  twilight,  down  the  path,  through 
the  rocks — and  then  down  again  into  oblivion  and  rest 
and  peace  and  solution  of  all  problems. 

She  was  so  deadly  tired.  The  sound  of  the  sea  came 
to  her  like  a  great  hush-song  from  beyond  the  houses, 
dulling  the  acuteness  of  her  grief.  She  realized  dimly  that 
she  was  experiencing  one  of  the  infinite  moments,  an 
interval — a  pause — between  the  future  and  the  past. 
Then  all  became  confused  and  blurred,  and  she  sank 
into  the  dim  depths  of  sleep. 

With  Gardshore  it  was  very  different.  He  had  gone 
up  to  his  room  and  was  making  his  preparations.  The 
journal  he  had  kept  from  time  to  time  during  the  weeks 
which  had  intervened  since  the  night  he  called  the  fiasco 
had  to  be  folded  and  placed  in  its  envelope.  One  last 
sheet  had  still  to  be  added.  But  he  delayed  this  in  order 
that  he  might  have  some  occupation  at  the  last  moments. 
Experience  had  taught  him  that  these  would  be  the  worst. 
He  feared  a  recurrence  of  what  had  happened  before,  of 
the  struggle  he  had  had  with  his  lower  self,  and  then 

He  laid  his  sheet  of  paper  on  the  desk  and  set  the  pen 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    287 

and  ink  ready.  But  he  had  not  begun  to  write  when  to 
his  disgust  he  heard  a  motor  whir  up  to  the  front  door. 

Opening  one  of  the  windows  which  overlooked  the 
street  he  tried  to  distinguish  it  in  the  dusk.  But  he  could 
only  see  that  its  driver  had  already  left  it. 

"Ten  to  one  it 's  Adair,"  he  said  to  himself.  "It  would 
be  just  like  him  to  come  in  now  upon  me." 

Anger  overcame  him  again  at  this  thought  and  at  the 
thought  of  Wintergreen  dawdling  downstairs. 

"And  now  she  '11  make  his  coming  an  excuse,"  he  said. 

He  went  out  on  the  landing  trembling  with  irritation. 

Far  below  he  could  hear  a  great  sound  of  talking.  But 
the  kitchen  door  was  shut. 

"Some  friend  of  hers,"  he  fumed.  "Detestable  old 
hag,  when  she  knows  I  am  waiting  here  for  her." 

Then  in  desperation  he  returned  to  the  room  again  and 
seized  the  pen. 

"This  is  the  end  of  my  last  day,"  he  wrote.  "I  leave 
the  earth  gladly,  but  without  hope,  except  for  annihila- 
tion. I  have  done  no  good  by  lingering.  I  have  pre- 
vented nothing.  I  leave  the  stage  free  now  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned.  They  seem — I  must  admit  it — made  for 
each  other.  What  matter  to  them  broken  hearts?" 

At  this  point,  as  on  the  evening  of  the  fiasco,  he  heard 
the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps. 

Wintergreen  at  last.  But  he  heard  her  this  time  with 
strange  apathy.  He  laid  down  his  pen.  He  was  quite 
calm. 

Not  so  the  footsteps,  however.  Wintergreen  seemed 
to  be  bounding  up  the  staircase  two  and  three  steps  at 
a  time.  Hardly  had  he  noticed  this  strange  circumstance 
when  there  was  an  impatient  rat-tat  at  the  door. 

"Come  in!"  he  said,  looking  steadily  toward  it. 


288  WINTERGREEN 

"Arthur  Gardshore !"  exclaimed  a  voice  trembling  with 
anxiety  and  wrath  and  imminent  tears.  "How  dare  you 
think  of  wanting  to  kill  yourself?" 

Before  him  stood  Jimmy  in  her  white  satin  gown,  scar- 
let, breathless,  lovelier  than  he  had  ever  seen  her.  And 
next  moment  she  had  caught  up  both  his  hands  and 
pressed  them  passionately  to  her  lips. 

"What  have  you  to  say?"  she  demanded. 

He  had  nothing  to  say  it  seemed,  but — "Jimmy !  How 
_why " 

"I  '11  tell  you  how,"  she  answered.  "Wintergreen  told 
me — told  me  everything  because  she  guessed  better  than 
you.  And  I  '11  tell  you  why — it 's  because  I  have  loved 
you  always — only Now  do  you  understand?" 

As  Jimmy  disappeared  up  the  stairs  the  telephone  bell 
rang. 

"What 's  this  next?"  said  Wintergreen  as  she  hurried  to 
answer  it. 

It  was  Alexander. 

"I  've  got  Miss  Carmyle,"  he  said.  "But  I  can't  get 
the  doctor.  A  man  here  has  had  an  accident  and  he  's 
taking  him  to  hospital  with  another  doctor — one  of  the 
visitors — in  the  Longshaws  motor.  What  am  I  to  do 
now?" 

"Follow  him  at  once,"  said  Wintergreen. 

"But  the  orders  is  to  stay  here  till  he  comes  back,"  said 
Alexander.  "I  'm  at  Pitcaple." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Wintergreen.  "Follow  him  at 
once,  and  what 's  more,  insist  upon  seeing  him ;  give 
him  the  letter  and  tell  him  to  read  it  at  once." 

"But  he''s  awful  touchy  when  he  's  workin',"  said  Alex- 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    289 

ander.  "And  they  say  this  man  is  very  bad.  He'll  be 
in  a  rage  at  me  if  I  do  that." 

"He  '11  be  in  a  worse  rage  if  you  do  not,"  said  Winter- 
green,  and  rang  off. 

She  stood  listening  for  a  moment  then. 

A  murmur  of  voices  was  coming  from  the  top  flat. 
Otherwise  all  the  house  was  silent.  She  went  and  opened 
the  door  of  the  dining-room.  Then  a  low  ejaculation  of 
satisfaction  escaped  her. 

"Ah,  that 's  right !"  she  said,  and  moving  towards 
the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  she  turned  it  back  an  hour. 
Then  she  went  and  did  the  same  to  the  kitchen  clock  and 
the  mad  clock  on  the  stairs.  Then  returning  to  the 
kitchen  she  sat  down. 

"I  '11  begin  to  make  the  supper  when  she  wakes,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "The  longer  it  takes  the  better." 

Then  smiling  a  little  she  thought  of  her  interview  with 
Jimmy,  who  had  arrived  like  a  whirlwind  in  answer  to 
her  summons,  having  driven  the  runabout  herself  from 
Pitcaple,  dressed  in  her  white  satin,  with  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford 's  coat  flung  round  her. 

"He  '11  surely  be  satisfied  now,"  she  said  to  herself. 

A  weight  seemed  to  be  lifted  from  her  mind.  For 
the  first  time  for  weeks  she  felt  at  ease  and  happy.  She 
looked  round  her  shining  kitchen  serenely  content.  Then 
her  wandering  glance  fell  on  the  table  and  noticed  the 
evening  paper  lying  there.  She  took  it  up.  She  had 
not  looked  at  a  newspaper  for  many  days,  but  in  her 
pleasant  idleness  she  began  to  read  the  first  page — the 
advertisement  page. 

Then  suddenly  she  sat  up. 

Her  own  discarded  name  was  staring  at  her  from  the 


290  WINTERGREEN 

middle  of  the  first  column,  in  the  midst  of  six  lines 
signed  by  Messrs.  Carrick  &  Carrick,  Solicitors,  Rathness. 

"Good  God !"  she  said  softly  after  she  had  read  it 
once.  Then  she  began  reading  it  over  again. 

But  before  she  had  finished  it  for  the  second  time 
another  motor  whirred  up  outside  and  a  latch-key  rattled 
in  the  front  door  lock.  She  flung  away  the  paper  and 
sprang  up. 

Next  moment  Jack  entered,  with  white,  set  face. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  demanded.  "We  were  on  the 
way  to  hospital  and  met  Alexander  on  the  road.  He 
made  me  stop,  thank  God!  Is  she  still  here?" 

"Still  here,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen. 

She  pointed  to  the  dining-room  door,  and  the  next 
moment  it  had  closed  behind  him.  In  two  strides  he  was 
at  the  hearth-side  and  kneeling  by  the  sleeping  Alice. 
But  it  was  no  good.  He  could  not  wait. 

"Little  girl,"  he  whispered.  "Little  girl — wake  up  and 
speak  to  me." 

Then  gathering  her  in  his  arms  he  held  her  close. 
Waking,  she  found  herself  on  his  breast.  With  a  cry 
she  thrust  him  from  her,  but  he  only  laughed. 

"It 's  no  good,  dear,"  he  said.  "It 's  all  over.  You  've 
given  yourself  away  completely.  I  have  read  your  letter. 
I  know  you  love  me." 

"You  have  read  my  letter  ?"  she  whispered,  bewildered, 
for  this  was  the  Jack  of  the  old  years  come  back,  and  the 
realization  of  this  was  so  strange,  so  wonderful,  that  sud- 
denly nothing  else  seemed  to  matter. 

He  kissed  her  again  and  again  in  the  old  impulsive  way. 

"Yes,"  he  said  as  she  laid  her  head  in  its  old  place  on 
the  lapel  of  his  coat.  "You  scared  me  out  of  my  seven 
senses.  But  it's  worth  it  all  to  have  had  that  letter!" 


ONCE  MORE  SHE  MEETS  AN  OCCASION    291 

"Then,"  said  Alice,  dreamily,  for  she  knew  already 
without  asking,  "it  is  me  you  love^after  all,  and  not  that 
other,  though  she  is  so  beautiful  and  clever  and  I  am 
such  a  little  fool?  I  don't  understand  how  you  can." 

"Nor  do  I,"  he  whispered.  "But  you  see  I  can't  help 
it." 

She  laughed  for  the  first  time  for  many  days,  a  low, 
happy  laugh,  and  nestled  closer  to  him. 

At  that  moment  the  telephone  rang  outside  in  the  hall 
again,  but  neither  of  them  heard  it. 

Wintergreen  answered  it. 

"Hallo,"  said  an  irate  male  voice.  "This  is  the  hospital. 
Can  you  tell  me  if  Dr.  Adair  is  coming  on  here  or  not? 
Is  the  case  he  was  called  away  to  urgent?" 

"Very  urgent,"  said  Wintergreen. 

"Then  am  I  to  understand,"  said  the  irate  voice,  "that 
he  cannot  come  on  here  at  all?  For  if  so  I  must  get 
some  one  else." 

"I  should  advise  you  to  do  so,  sir,"  said  Wintergreen. 
"He  is  not  likely  to  be  able  leave  this  case  for  some  time 
yet." 

How  they  talked !  There  was  no  fire  in  the  grate  that 
night,  but  there  was  no  need  for  one.  Nobody  wanted  to 
brood.  On  the  contrary  they  often  talked  both  at  once. 
They  had  so  much  leeway  to  make  up.  But  after  a  time 
long  pauses  supervened.  It  seemed  enough  to  be  together 
there  in  silence,  and  Alice,  listening  to  the  sea  as  of  old, 
thought  of  the  rock  of  the  sea-pinks  and  hid  her  face. 
For  in  all  the  talking  there  was  one  secret  yet  untold ;  the 
secret  that  had  been  a  thing  of  horror  and  was  now  a 
wonder  of  wonders.  She  glowed  in  the  dusk  unseen  as 
she  thought  of  it. 


292  WINTERGREEN 

"Jack,"  she  said  softly,  "there  's  one  thing  I  want  to 
tell  you " 

And  then  suddenly  the  door  opened. 

"Damn!"  exclaimed  Jack  under  his  breath. 

They  started  apart  as  though  they  had  been  young 
lovers,  when  Gardshore  entered,  followed,  to  their  in- 
tense astonishment,  by  Jimmy  in  her  white  satin. 

They  entered  together  indeed.  Her  arm  was  slipped 
through  his,  her  hand  was  clasped  in  his,  and  both  were 
radiant. 

"Adair,  old  man,"  said  Gardshore,  "I  've  just  come  to 
tell  you — and  you  '11  be  glad  to  hear  it,  I  am  sure — that 
I  have  completely  recovered !" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Which  begins  with  one  Departure  and  concludes  with 
Another 

ON  the  second  morning  after  the  events  last  recorded 
Alice  found  the  following  note  attached  to  her  hot- 
water  can. 

Dear  Madam :  I  regret  to  say  that  private  affairs  compel  me 
to  take  twenty-four  hours'  leave.  But  everything  is  cooked  and 
ready  for  the  day,  and  I  hope  to  be  here  again  before  breakfast 
to  morrow  morning.  In  the  meantime  Alexander  is  ready  to 
attend  to  essentials  and  has  been  given  full  instructions.  His 
nephew,  he  says,  is  ready  to  take  his  place  as  chauffeur  should 
he  be  required. 

Yours  respectfully, 

WlNTERGREEN. 

"Well,  I  never!"  said  Alice  to  herself.  But  when  she 
came  downstairs  she  found  that  the  letter  had  been  the 
truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Everything  was  ready 
in  the  dining-room,  and  in  the  kitchen  she  found  Alex- 
ander, purple  with  heat  and  anxiety  to  please,  on  his  knees 
in  front  of  the  fire,  making  toast. 

At  sight  of  her  he  scrambled  to  his  feet,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  face. 

"Do  you  know  why  Wintergreen  has  gone?"  she  said 
to  him. 

"No,  m'm,"  he  said.    "But  I  'm  sure  it 's  all  right." 

"Oh,  it 's  all  right,  of  course,"  said  Alice  with  her  old 

293 


294  WINTERGREEN 

gay  confidence.  That  morning  it  would  have  been  all 
right  to  her  even  if  the  Bow  House  had  fallen  about  her 
ears.  An  hour  later  when  she  and  Jack  sat  down  to 
breakfast  no  more  light-hearted  couple  have  been  seen 
anywhere.  There  were  no  miserable  silences  now,  no 
bitter  thoughts,  no  set  speeches.  After  the  meal  was  over 
they  lingered  still.  Alice  poured  herself  out  an  unnec- 
sary  cup  of  tea.  Jack  lit  a  cigarette,  glancing  perfunc- 
torily at  the  newspaper  as  he  did  so. 

"Here 's  a  queer  advertisement,"  he  said,  "that  has 
been  in  the  front  column  every  day  for  the  last  week.  A 
man  has  died  leaving  a  million  pounds  to  a  Miss  Julia 
Glenferlie,  who  saved  his  life  at  the  time  of  the  Lusitania 
disaster.  And  evidently  she  cannot  be  found.  She  has 
never  claimed  her  money." 

"A  million  pounds !"  exclaimed  Alice.  "Jack,  don't  you 
wish  you  had  it?" 

"No,"  said  Jack.  "I  'm  too  happy  as  I  am.  I  would  n't 
change  with  anybody  for  a  million!" 

The  prolonged  and  unaccountable  absence  of  Miss 
Glenferlie  had  had  a  serious  effect  in  Rathness.  By  the 
end  of  the  first  fortnight  Mr.  Carrick  the  lawyer  had 
taken  to  sitting  up  reading  half  the  night  to  avoid  being 
tormented  by  bad  dreams  about  his  client.  The  dream  he 
had  dreamed  on  the  first  night  of  her  disappearance  was 
always  recurring  with  ghastly  variations.  Sometimes  in- 
stead of  his  finding  her,  she  was  finding  him  buried  under 
the  Scotch  firs.  It  was  very  nerve-shattering. 

"And  very  trying  for  me,"  said  Mrs.  Carrick  when  he 
complained  to  her,  "to  have  you  starting  up  six  times  in 
the  night.  One  would  think  that  you  were  the  murderer." 

From  this  it  will  be  gathered  that  Mrs.  Carrick,  in  spite 


TWO  DEPARTURES  295 

of  all  her  husband's  arguments,  still  held  to  her  first  opin- 
ion as  to  the  cause  of  Miss  Glenferlie's  disappearance. 

"You  need  n't  say  another  word,  Edward,"  she  always 
said  when  he  had  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  prove 
the  contrary.  "That  old  woman  in  the  black  veil  that 
handed  in  the  note  was  the  murderer  or  his  accomplice. 
Take  my  word  for  it." 

As  time  went  on,  this  conviction,  though  it  remained 
unaltered  in  its  main  outlines,  assimilated  new  details  and 
acquired  accretions.  When  the  first  letter  came  to  Miss 
Glenferlie  from  Mr.  Macfarlane  Mr.  Carrick  triumphed. 
Here,  he  said,  was  the  reason  of  her  departure.  The  let- 
ter, which,  it  will  be  remembered,  his  absent  client  had 
ordered  him  to  open  and  reply  to,  ran  as  follows : 

Dear  Miss  Glenferlie:  I  fear  my  last  letter  may  have  mis- 
carried. My  unfortunate  absent  mindedness,  the  reason  for  which 
you  know,  may  have  caused  me  unwittingly  to  misdirect  it.  I 
therefore  write  again  to  say  that  on  Friday  first  I  hope  to  be  in 
Rathness  and  to  call  on  you  the  following  morning,  if  I  arrive 
too  late  to  come  that  evening.  You  may  ascertain  the  hour  of 
my  arrival  by  inquiring  at  the  Crown  Hotel,  where  I  have  taken 
rooms  until  further  notice.  I  hear  you  have  a  telephone,  so  I 
shall  ring  you  up  in  any  case.  Yours  ever  in  the  irrevocable 
bonds  of  the  awful  past, 

JAMES  MACFARLANE. 

"I  knew  it,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carrick  when  he  had  read 
this.  "There  is  a  man  at  the  bottom  of  it.  'The  awful 
past.'  It  looks  as  if  she  had  been  married  instead  of  mur- 
dered." 

But  Mrs.   Carrick  smiled  pityingly. 

"Really,  Edward,"  she  said,  "I  wonder  sometimes  how 
people  continue  to  consult  you.  You  jump  to  conclusions 
without  the  least  thought.  Now  I  said  from  the  very 
first  that  that  old  woman  with  the  veil  had  an  accomplice, 
and  there  's  nothing  to  prevent  poor  Miss  Glenferlie  be- 


296  WINTERGREEN 

ing  both  married  and  murdered.  Just  think  of  that  man 
in  France  quite  recently  who  married  half  a  dozen  people 
and  then  murdered  them  straight  off.  What 's  to  prevent 
this  man  Macfarlane  from  being  just  such  another?" 

"Nothing,"  said  her  husband,  "except  the  trifling  cir- 
cumstance that  he  is  only  announcing  his  arrival  at  Rath- 
ness  now." 

"That  would  be  all  right  if  we  knew  where  Miss  Glen- 
ferlie  was,"  said  his  wife. 

"Oh,  bother !"  said  Mr.  Carrick.  "Well,  anyhow,  I  fve 
got  to  answer  the  letter." 

He  answered  it  as  soon  as  he  reached  his  office. 

"Dear  Sir,"  he  wrote.  "My  client,  Miss  Glenferlie  of 
the  Skellicks,  Rathness,  having  been  obliged,  for  reasons 
which  I  am  unable  to  disclose,  to  leave  home  for  an  in- 
definite period,  I  have  been  directed  by  her  to  open  and 
answer  all  letters  which  arrive  for  her  in  her  absence. 
I  have  therefore  to  thank  you  for  your  letter  received 
this  morning,  and  to  inform  you  that,  so  far  as  I  know, 
no  former  letter  from  you  has  arrived  here.  I  have 
further  to  inform  you  that,  as  her  present  address  is  un- 
known to  me,  I  am  unable  either  to  forward  any  com- 
munications to  Miss  Glenferlie  or  to  advise  her  of  your 
imminent  arrival.  Yours  truly, 

"EDWARD  CARRICK." 

"That  will  choke  him  off,"  he  said  to  himself.     But 
never  was  he  more  mistaken. 
A  reply  came  by  return  of  post. 

Dear  Sir:  Yours  to  hand,  but  in  my  opinion  extremely  unsat- 
isfactory. I  insist  upon  knowing  further  particulars  of  the 
reasons  for  Miss  Glenferlie's  absence.  I  have  a  right  to  know 


TWO  DEPARTURES  297 

the  nature  of  the  circumstances  in  which  she  now  finds  herself. 
And  I  will  know  them.    Kindly  reply  by  return.    Yours  truly, 

JAMES  MACFARLANE. 

"Confound  the  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Carrick  as  he  read 
this.  "But  after  all  he  may  have  some  rights.  He  seems 
very  certain  about  it  anyhow,  and  women  are  strange 
creatures." 

He  thought  it  best  to  reply,  therefore,  and  did  it  by 
return  as  commanded. 

"Dear  Sir,"  he  wrote.  "I  have  received  your  letter, 
and  in  reply  have  to  tell  you  that  I  am  unable  to  state  the 
reasons  for  Miss  Glenferlie's  absence  because  I  do  not 
know  them.  But  I  shall  be  glad,  if  you  wish  to  investi- 
gate the  matter,  to  do  all  I  can  to  render  you  assistance. 
"Yours  truly,  EDWARD  CARRICK." 

"That  will  keep  me  right  either  way,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Carrick  when  he  told  her  about  it  that  evening. 

"It  won't  keep  you  right,  Edward,  when  everything  is 
found  out  and  it  is  discovered  that  you  have  been  hand  in 
glove  with  the  murderer,"  she  replied. 

"Oh,  Tx>sh  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carrick. 

"Very  well,"  said  his  wife.  "Only  if  you  are  arrested 
and  taken  to  Calton  jail  for  being  an  accessory  after  the 
fact,  don't  blame  me,  please." 

The  shape  of  Mr.  Macfarlane  mingled  that  night  in 
the  dreams  of  Mr.  Carrick  and  next  morning,  when  a 
telegram  arrived  from  him  in  reply  to  his  letter,  he  felt 
reluctant  to  open  it.  When  he  did  so,  however,  his  ap- 
prehension changed  to  irritation. 

"Starting  for  Rathness,"  it  ran.    "Kindly  meet  trains." 

"Well,  upon  my  word !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carrick.  "And 
he  '11  *be  bringing  detectives  with  him  and  what  not. 


298  WINTERGREEN 

Trains,  too!  How  many  trains  pray?  Does  he  expect 
me  to  spend  the  whole  day  at  the  railway  station?" 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Edward,"  said  his  wife.  "All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  look  at  the  time  when  the  wire  was  sent 
off  and  meet  the  train  that  starts  from  London  nearest  to 
that  time.  If  he  does  n't  come  by  that  he  will  come  by 
the  next.  The  whole  thing  is  a  blind,  of  course,  but  it 
may  be  as  well  to  humor  him." 

"What  I  hate  is  the  idea  of  this  fellow  coming  here  and 
telling  all  Rathness  that  we  have  lost  her,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
rick.  "Nobody  yet  has  the  least  idea  that  her  absence 
has  anything  unusual  about  it,  but  the  moment  this  man 
comes  the  whole  place  will  be  in  an  uproar." 

"It  will  be  in  an  uproar  anyhow  before  we  Ve  done 
with  this,"  said  Mrs.  Carrick. 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake  stop  prophesying  like  Jere- 
miah, and  look  up  the  time-table  for  me,"  said  her  hus- 
band. 

The  time-table  was  brought  while  Mr.  Carrick  began 
breakfast,  and  it  was  found  that  the  first  train  Mr.  Mac- 
farlane  could  come  by  was  the  9  .'35. 

"Just  time  to  catch  it,"  said  Mrs.  Carrick,  and  the  law- 
yer, leaving  half  his  bacon  and  all  his  coffee  untouched, 
made  for  the  railway  station. 

To  no  purpose,  however.  No  Mr.  Macfarlane  ap- 
peared by  that  train,  or  by  the  next — or  the  next.  After 
the  arrival  of  the  6 130  the  manageress  of  the  Crown  Hotel 
rang  up,  asking  if  Mr.  Carrick  had  had  any  news  of  Mr. 
Macfarlane.  He  had  ordered  an  elaborate  dinner  for 
two,  it  seemed,  saying  that  Mr.  Carrick  would  be  dining 
with  him.  Should  she  or  should  she  not  go  on  with  the 
hors  d'oeuvres?  There  were  a  dozen  ordered,  and  no- 
body else  would  be  wanting  them  that  night. 


TWO  DEPARTURES  299 

"All  part  of  the  blind,"  said  Mrs.  Carrick  when  she 
heard  of  this.  "A  man  who  is  capable  of  thinking  of  hors 
d'oeuvres  at  such  a  time  is  fit  for  anything.  He  has  prob- 
ably done  lots  of  other  crimes  and  been  arrested  now  on 
the  way  here." 

This  time  she  had  spoken  more  truly  than  she  knew. 
Mr.  Macfarlane  had  been  arrested,  though  not  by  Scot- 
land Yard. 

Next  day  a  telegram  came  to  the  Crown  Hotel. 

"Mr.  James  Macfarlane  died  last  evening." 

"Surely  this  is  the  last  of  him  now,"  said  Mr.  Carrick 
when  the  manageress  sent  it  up  to  him. 

But  no.    Next  day  a  letter  came  to  himself. 

Dear  Sir:  I  am  instructed  to  inform  you  that  our  client,  Mr. 
James  Macfarlane,  died  yesterday  of  heart  failure  on  his  way  to 
King's  Cross.  In  terms  of  his  will,  dated  the  day  before,  he 
bequeaths  to  your  client,  Miss  Glenferlie  of  the  Skellicks,  East- 
shire,  as  a  small  acknowledgment  of  the  inestimable  service  she 
rendered  him  in  saying  his  life  at  the  time  of  the  Lusitania 
disaster,  his  estates  in  America,  his  flat  in  London,  and  the  sum 
of  one  million  pounds  sterling  free  of  death  duties.  Kindly  in- 
form your  client  of  this. 

Here  followed  the  name  of  a  well-known  firm  of  Lon- 
don solicitors. 

"I  might  have  known  it,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carrick.  "I 
might  have  known  that  he  would  barge  in  somehow. 
Now  there  's  nothing  for  it." 

Next  day  all  Rathness  read  the  following  advertise- 
ment in  the  morning  papers  : 

MILLIONAIRE  LEGATEE  WANTED. — Miss  Julia  Glenferlie  of  the 
Skellicks,  Eastshire,  Scotland,  is  hereby  informed  that  various 
valuable  properties  and  the  sum  of  one  million  pounds  sterling 
have  been  bequeathed  to  her  by  James  Macfarlane,  Esquire,  late 
of  London,  in  acknowledgment  of  service  rendered  by  her  in 


300  WINTERGREEN 

saving  his  life  at  the  time  of  the  Lusitania  disaster.  Her  imme- 
diate return  is  therefore  absolutely  necessary.  Messrs.  Carrick 
&  Carrick,  Solicitors,  Rathness. 

The  sensation  this  made  may  be  imagined.  Rathness 
buzzed  like  a  beehive  which  has  been  stirred  up  with  a 
stick.  Miss  Glenferlie  a  millionaire?  And  advertised 
for  ?  Was  she  lost  ?  What  had  happened  to  her  ?  Was 
she  not  at  the  Skellicks? 

Mrs.  Carrick's  drawing-room  that  afternoon  was 
crammed.  But  no  one  gained  any  information  there  be- 
yond what  was  already  known.  Mrs.  Carrick  made  up 
for  her  discretion  in  the  evening,  however,  when  the  un- 
happy Edward  was  her  only  audience.  That  night  he 
dreamed  he  had  been  made  into  hors  d'ceuvres.  It  was 
the  worst  dream  he  had  ever  had. 

A  week  passed  and  more,  and  every  day  the  com- 
munity pounced  upon  the  morning  papers  to  see  if  the 
advertisement  were  still  there.  People  took  to  going 
to  the  Skellicks  for  their  evening  walk,  and  wander- 
ing round  outside  the  grounds.  Never  had  the  road 
to  it  been  so  frequented  since  the  late  laird's  time.  It 
acquired  a  spurious  gaiety.  The  Skellicks  became  a 
show  place.  And  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
old  Clackmannans  at  the  lodge  looked  sourly  upon  all 
visitors. 

"It 's  like  we  were  tigers  in  a  menagerie,"  said  Mr. 
Clackmannan  to  his  wife  one  fine  night,  "wi'  a'  they  folk 
stickin'  like  flees  to  the  gate  there  an'  rollin'  their  impi- 
dent  e'en  roond  a'thing." 

"I  'm  awa'  up  to  Rathness  to  see  Carrick  aboot  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Clackmannan,  who  was  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind. 
"I  '11  tell  him  we  're  fair  scunnered  wi'  publeecity.  Wha 
kens  but  he  may  pit  up  oor  pay  ?" 


TWO  DEPARTURES  301 

"Wha  kens,"  returned  her  husband.  "A'thing  's  pos- 
sible noo." 

But  it  was  not  possible  for  Mrs.  Clackmannan  to  see 
Mr.  Carrick  that  night.  He  had  been  wired  for  in  the 
afternoon  and  had  gone  to  Edinburgh.  At  the  very  mo- 
ment she  was  inquiring  for  him  he  was  being  entertained 
at  the  North  British  Hotel  by  the  missing  lady  herself,  in 
a  sumptuous  gray  and  green  dinner-gown,  and  looking 
better  than  she  had  ever  done  in  her  life.  But  it  must 
be  confessed  that  though  the  food  had  been  excellent,  the 
wine  of  the  best,  and  his  client  in  her  most  genial  mood, 
the  lawyer's  enjoyment  had  been  tempered  by  his  bewil- 
derment, his  appreciation  modified  by  his  curiosity. 

Indeed  toward  the  end  of  the  meal  he  could  no  longer 
altogether  restrain  the  latter,  and,  seeing  this,  Miss  Glen- 
ferlie  rose  and  led  the  way  to  a  secluded  corner.  There, 
having  seen  her  guest  provided  with  cigars  and  coffee,  she 
said : 

"Well,  now,  what  about  this  legacy?" 

He  had  the  papers  in  his  pocket,  and  they  went  over 
them  together. 

"It  seems  all  right,"  she  said  when  they  had  finished. 

"Oh,  it 's  all  right !"  he  answered  with  an  excited  laugh, 
for  the  very  naming  of  the  sums  of  money  and  lists  of 
great  possessions,  along  with  the  other  intoxicants,  had 
gone  to  his  head.  So  far  out  of  himself  was  he,  indeed, 
that  against  his  habit  he  asked  a  direct  question. 

"And  now  what  about  your  return,  Miss  Glenferlie?" 
he  said  archly. 

"I  am  returning  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "If  you  want 
me  to  sign  anything  I  had  better  do  it  at  once." 

"But  surely,"  he  said,  wondering,  "that  could  wait  till  I 
come  to  the  Skellicks?" 


302  WINTERGREEN 

"I  am  not  returning  to  the  Skellicks,"  she  said. 

"Not  returning  to  the  Skellicks?"  he  exclaimed. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  am  tired  of  the  Skellicks  and  of 
all  that  living  there  nowdays  implies.  I  infinitely  prefer 
my  present  residence." 

"Oh,"  he  said  blankly,  "I  am  sorry  for  that.  I  had 
thought,  Miss  Glenferlie,  that  perhaps  your  absence  had 
something  to  do  with — with  the  temporary  lack  of  funds 
— and  that  now  that  there  was  plenty  of  money " 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "Money  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  I  at  present  need  no  money,  and  my  former  income, 
when  it  has  accumlated  again  and  after  all  debts  are  paid, 
will  be  sufficient  for  all  contingencies  that  may  arise.  I 
purpose,  therefore,  to  devote  this  legacy  to  another  pur- 
pose than  my  own  emolument.  I  shall  not  need  a  penny 
of  it." 

"My  dear  Miss  Glenferlie !"  he  exclaimed. 

"The  thought  of  going  back  to  my  former  existence 
revolts  me,"  she  continued.  "Its  dull  monotony  fills  me 
with  horror.  I  have  a  nightmare-like  remembrance  of 
the  boudoir  where  I  used  to  sit  hour  after  hour,  cut  off 
from  the  world  of  realities,  reading  the  experiences  and 
the  lives  of  other  people  and  missing  my  own  life,  sir — 
missing  my  own  life." 

"What  in  the  world  did  she  mean  by  that?"  said  Mrs. 
Carrick,  when  her  husband  was  describing  the  interview. 

"Goodness  knows,"  said  Mr.  Carrick.  "I  have  come 
back  no  wiser  than  I  went — except  for  the  instructions 
which  she  has  given  me  to  carry  out." 

"You  have  n't  even  her  address  ?" 

"Not  even  the  address.  When  she  wants  anything  she 
is  to  advertise  in  the  'Scotsman.'  When  I  want  anything 


TWO  DEPARTURES  303 

I  am  to  advertise.  We  are  both  to  examine  the  front 
column  daily." 

"Is  she  mad,  do  you  think?"  said  Mrs.  Carrick  with 
round  eyes. 

"Most  people  will  think  so  when  they  see  her  first  ad- 
vertisement," he  answered.  "But  I  am  bound  to  say  she 
seemed  absolutely  sane  to  me." 

He  produced  a  sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  closely 
written  in  his  client's  neat,  firm  hand. 

"These  are  the  directions,"  he  said.  "I  am  to  insert 
the  advertisement  at  the  end,  in  every  paper  I  can  think 
of.  And  the  Macfarlane  money  is  to  be  used  to  imple- 
ment it.  If  necessary  I  am  to  engage  new  clerks  to  assist 
me  with  the  correspondence.  But  I  myself  am  to  inter- 
view applicants,  and  it  strikes  me  I  shall  soon  be  doing 
nothing  else.  I  am  to  select  those  who  seem  strong  phy- 
sically and  mentally.  They  must  be  gentlewomen  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  They  must  have  tact,  sympathy,  and 
a  sense  of  humor.  They  must  be  keenly  interested  in  the 
welfare  of  their  country  and  willing  to  undergo  severe 
training  in  her  service.  When  I  have  selected  fifty  I  am 
to  let  Miss  Glenferlie  know  by  means  of  the  'Scotsman' 
column,  and  send  them  to  meet  her  on  a  date  to  be  ap- 
pointed by  her,  at  the  North  British  Hotel  in  Edinburgh. 
What  she  is  to  propose  to  them  there  I  know  not." 

He  paused. 

"But  the  advertisement,  Edward — read  the  advertise- 
ment," said  Mrs.  Carrick. 

"The  Order  of  the  Martha  Maries,"  he  read.  "Ten 
thousand  vacancies.  Rank  and  education  no  disqualifica- 
tion. Initiation  free.  All  unattached,  unoccupied  women 
are  invited  to  apply  to  Vert  d'Hiver,  'Scotsman'  Office, 
where  they  may  hear  of  something  to  their  own  and  the 
national  advantage." 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARY  FACILITY 


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